The Hunting of A Snark
by Muffy Morrigan
Summary: Sam and Dean hunt a mythical creature that might be behind a series of disappearances. When the hunt goes wrong, things change forever. Anniversary fic so a wondrous collection of everything including hurt!Dean, hurt!Sam and maybe the end of the world.
1. Prologue

_A/N: And so my friends we gather again on July 18, my ficiversary (which is totally a word). Five years ago today, I first posted _Graduation Day. _It's been an amazing five years, full of ups and downs and everything else imaginable. In fact, in a life that has been turned upside down, the one thing that has remain constant is this, my writing, my fic, and posting, keeping me grounded in a storm that would otherwise sweep me away. I don't say it enough, but thank you all for an amazing five years. Thank you for kind words and encouragement, love and support. You make it all worthwhile. Huge Winchester hug to all of you. Extra special thanks to Merisha, Abni, TraSan. _

_A/N II: A word about this fic. I have had the prologue bouncing around my computer for a couple of years. I think I wrote it first back in season three. I set it aside because it wasn't ready, as was the idea of _The Hunting of the Snark. _That idea has been poking me since October 2008 when I first met TraSan. I adore Lewis Carroll's poem and wrote a major paper back in my academic days, but apparently I was not destined for that life (I think they thought I didn't take it too seriously—in fact shortly after the Snark paper I was told at a history conference my published paper was "colorful and flamboyant" which in academic translates as "burn the witch") Anyway, I digress. I nearly scrapped the whole thing after the season five finale, but then thought, to quote Dean, "Nah". I love the prologue and the story ... and so we embark._

_A/N III: And I promise to shut up after but you need to know two things. One: all quotes are from the most magnificent _The Hunting of the Snark _by Lewis Carroll. Two: __**This is not a death fic **__let me repeat that just so you are sure of it __**NOT DEATH FIC! NOT NOT NOT! BEEEEP NOT DEATH FIC! **__I pinky swear promise._

**The Hunting of a Snark**

_With Apologies to Lewis Carroll_

**Prologue**

Hat Point, Hell's Canyon, Oregon, within view of the Seven Devils Mountain Range

_**One minute, ten seconds after**_.

Silence, just the faintest lingering sound of laughter on the air, maniacal, all-consuming, life-devouring laughter. And then it was still echoing—not on the wind, but in his mind. The rest was silence.

_**Three days, five hours, seven minutes, fifteen seconds after.**_

Dean stood by the chasm and looked down at the rocks below. The wind whipped up the solid rock face, buffeting him, howling around him. He looked down, wondering what it would feel like—that fall, plunging over and for a moment flying, freeing him of everything.

"Time to go," he said, and walked to the car.

_**One week, one day, nine hours, thirty minutes, two seconds after**_.

The werewolf got so close he could taste its breath, the fetid stench whipping around him like the wind from the chasm. He let the creature grab him, let it think that his neck would make its next meal. At the last moment, and with a half second of regret, he put his gun against its chest and pulled the trigger.

"Another one down," he said, and turned from the body.

That night he dreams.

_**One month, two weeks, six days, one hour, ten minutes, forty-five seconds after.**_

It was close, the closest call there had been in a while. Not for want of trying, of course, but luck just didn't seem to be coming Dean's way and he'd managed to escape harm every single hunt, every single creature, every single attempt to throw himself into the jaws of death. Not this time. He was torn up, the creatures claws opening his flesh as easily as tearing through paper.

"No," he said as the first stitch pulled his skin.

"Yes."

"No," he protested the next stitch as well, batting at the hand holding him down, but he didn't have the strength.

"Yes, damn it." There's a pause and a prick, a tiny sting in a world of hurt and everything went dark.

He hates the dark, it's full of dreams, they never leave him now, sometimes even when he's awake and aware they are there. It's madness, full-fledged and he is ready to embrace it.

_**Two months, three weeks, five days, thirteen hours, thirty-nine minutes, three seconds after**_

It was getting warm, even the shadows were beginning to have a gentle warmth in them. Dean walked slowly through the yard, it felt odd to be up and in the sun. The lingering effects of the wounds, an infection and another hunt gone sour had sapped his strength to the point where he'd spent several weeks in and out of awareness. Still that internal counter kept functioning. Sometime in the dark of night he'd made a decision, though, which was why he was up carefully picking his way through the yard. He had shoved aside the madness, promised it he would be there soon, and walked into the sun.

"You should be in bed."

"Yeah, it will kill me to be up, right?" Dean answered.

"It might."

"Good."

"Dean..."

"No, it's time, I have to go back. I..." The guilt was overwhelming. "We..."

"No."

"I have to, it's nearly three months. I..." He blinked, the tears stinging his eyes.

"You can't."

"Find the creature, kill it and..." He swallowed the lump, the ache tightening in his chest.

"No."

"The body... We..." Tears began burning down his cheeks, tiny tracks of acid.

"Dean... The chasm is..."

"I don't care," Dean said finally, trying to breathe around the pain in his chest.

"No."

"Yes, I've listened to you for almost three months."

"Yeah."

"And I'm not anymore," Dean met the other man's eyes. "I'm going back, Bobby. If nothing else to see if his bones are there, and if they are, I plan on finally giving my brother the burial he deserves."

Bobby sighed, his eyes bright, but he didn't say anything. Dean knew why, Bobby had been listening to him as he shouted, delirious, for the past weeks. He knew the depth of the madness, knew there was no turning Dean from this hunt, knew there was nothing that would stop him from his goal. And when it was over, he knew there was nothing that would stop the rest of it as well.

_To Be Continued_


	2. Chapter the First

**The Hunting of a Snark**

**Chapter the First**

_Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again  
>The five unmistakable marks <em>

**Three Months Before**

The road was empty, the long empty stretches that Dean loved above all else. It meant the radio was up to almost full volume, Sam was crashed in the seat beside him, the windows were down and they were off on a hunt.

The Perfect World—Winchester Style.

They were in Eastern Oregon, mostly ranches and farms dotting the landscape. The hills were the ones Dean always associated with this part of the country—the Snake and Columbia River valleys—rolling mountains covered in ancient lava that always reminded him of castle ramparts. He remembered telling Sam when they drove through as children that they were "long ago" castles. Somehow he'd never shaken that childhood fancy.

Dean loved this country. Loved the hills, loved the deep blue of the Wallowa Mountains looming in the distance, loved the cottonwood that clustered around the waterways and the wide open fields that made him feel like he could see forever. There was something about it that filled him with a sense of peace, and he had no idea why. He wasn't fond of camping, it was easier to slip anonymously through a city, but still, there was something here that made him breathe easier, that relaxed the tension between his shoulder blades, and it had the same effect on his brother. Sam laughed a little louder, smiled a lot more, even dug through the ancient box of tapes and stuck in his favorite mixes, cranking the volume "one louder", to the small number eleven Dean had drawn on the stereo with paint, which would set them both laughing.

If it weren't for the five missing persons, it would be a vacation—and even then, Dean wasn't even sure it was their kind of gig. Sam didn't seem sure either, and he suspected his brother had found the "hunt" more as an excuse to revisit the area than because he believed anything was lurking in the bright valleys and pine-topped hills. They needed a break, and this was perfect. If they were lucky, the little cafe in Joseph still had the fried pork chop sandwiches. The area had become more "artistic" than it had once been and restaurants catering to a more upscale clientele had replaced some of the diners and taverns, but it was still in the heart of ranching country. Dean grinned, the locals were not easily parted from what they loved.

Dean pulled into town, heading towards the motel they had stayed at years before, happily surprised that it was still there, nestled under ancient lodge pole pines with a small picnic table out front and the sound of the wind all around. He got out of the car and took a deep breath, the air was fresh, scented with a mixture of pine and sage, hay and dust and something else that would always be this place for him.

"What's the plan?' Dean asked, leaning against the sun-warmed car.

"All of the disappearances were up the valley."

"So, we get lunch and head up there for a picnic?" Dean smiled.

"A picnic?" Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Sure, why not, it's not camping, so we're not tempting fate. No wendigos, no orcs. You know, sunlight, sandwiches..."

"Ants, yellow jackets..."

"Spoilsport." Dean opened the car and dropped into the driver's seat. After a quick stop at the Safeway, they were winding their way up the valley towards Imnaha. It hadn't changed since the last time they were there, spending time at a friend of their father's while John recovered from a bad mauling. The house had been up the Imnaha River valley and Sam and Dean had spend many hours sitting by the river, playing in the water, pretending to fish and roasting hotdogs over a campfire every night.

Dean turned the music down and looked at his brother. "It looks the same."

"It does, remember white-water rafting on the air mattresses?"

"Down to the bridge and we walked back," Dean said, laughing. "That one night the cougar tracked us back. Maybe it's something like that? Idiots getting themselves eaten by the local wildlife."

"When Bobby called, I wondered about that too, but the strange thing is there is no trace of them at all."

"Happens all the time, Sam. The Benders took people for years until you cunningly tracked them down." Dean gripped the wheel tighter for just a moment, the memory of those frantic hours flashing through his mind, chased away by his brother's chuckle.

"I know." Sam frowned. "It's more a hunch."

"What kind of hunch?" Dean glanced over, then focused back on the road as he passed a large logging truck lumbering along at the speed limit.

"That something is going on up there."

"Like what?" Dean asked absently, watching as the valley narrowed briefly, the bulbous rock walls reaching over the road.

"All of the disappearances were at Hat Point."

"Hat Point?"

"It's the overlook to Hell's Canyon, we went up there with Al when we were staying up here, remember?"

Dean smiled, remembering the trip up to the lookout. The drive was amazing, and when they got there, Al had been friends with the fire spotter and they had been allowed to climb up into the tower. It was a view he'd never forgotten. He'd teased Sam for years about seeing the Grand Canyon, but the memory of that deep valley, with the mountains in the background and the sense of freedom of a day away from their father—he doubted the Grand Canyon could top that. From the top of the tower they could see for miles, the spotter had explained his job, Dean and Sam had ignored him, taking turns racing from side to side, shouting what they could see.

"Huh," they said together.

"Do you remember that?" Dean asked his brother.

"What was it?"

"We asked, didn't we? What it was?"

Sam frowned, thinking about it. "We did, they told us we imagined it."

"So," Dean said, looking over. "There is something up there."

They drove through the tiny hamlet of Imnaha and headed up the road towards Hat Point. It climbed steadily up, winding along the valley, then moving to hug the hill, and finally they were driving along the crest, the sides along the edge of the road dropping thousands of feet. Dean swallowed, he knew objectively, the road was plenty wide for both his car and a large truck, but somehow it felt close, dangerous and he was slowing down. He could see his brother grinning at him and chose to ignore it. Finally, he reached the parking area and pulled in. They were on top of the world, or it felt that way. Sam walked over to the edge and they stood together looking down into the gorge.

"It's the deepest river gorge in America," Sam said.

"I'd be more impressed if I couldn't read the sign too," Dean said, pointing at the plaque that said the gorge was 7,993 feet deep. "We are currently at almost 5,500 feet. See, I know shit."

"Or read it." Sam laughed.

"You did it first." Dean nudged him. "What was that?"

"I don't know." Sam moved closer to the edge, the wind whipping up out of the canyon.

"Can you see anything?" Dean stepped beside him, peering over. The wave of vertigo was so unexpected and so shattering he had no time to react. Everything swam before his eyes, reality wavering and he would have tumbled over, except for Sam's reflexes. His brother grabbed him by the collar and hauled him back from the edge, yanking him with enough force for both of them to end up on the ground.

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam was furious.

"I … I'm not sure." He shook his head. "I got dizzy."

"You almost fell over the edge. Five thousand feet!"

Dean swallowed, all too aware of how close he had come to that fatal fall. He stood up, Sam standing and looming over him like a rabid guard dog. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the only other person there, a man in a ranger's uniform, walking along the edge, obviously focused on the horizon and not watching where he was walking.

The man suddenly stopped.

Dean started moving towards him, Sam right behind him, the sense of disaster closing in faster than he could move.

The ranger took another unsure step, raised a hand to his head and fell. His scream filled the wind with terror and suddenly another sound echoed around them—a growl, a shriek, a laugh all combined into one until as quickly as it was born it ended, the ranger's scream gone as well as if it had been swallowed whole.

Dean reached the spot where the man had fallen and looked over—nothing—not even a rock out of place to show the man had ever even existed.

He looked up into his brother's eyes, seeing his own sense of horror reflected there. Whatever had happened to the ranger had almost been his fate. Dean took a slow breath, noticing his hands were shaking, Sam didn't look any better.

"I guess we have a hunt," Sam said softly.

"Yeah, but for what?"

**Present**

_**Two months, three weeks, six days, nine hours, twelve minutes, seven seconds after**_

Dean turned the car onto the highway that lead to Imnaha. The radio was silent, Bobby was silent, the only sound came from the car, rumbling its soft song of the road. It had been too long, but it was time, long past time.

"This is a fool's errand," Bobby muttered. It was the only thing he said, only thing he had said for the last two hundred miles.

Dean growled. He felt the older hunter's eyes on him, staring, it didn't matter what the man thought. He had a plan, he knew what he was going to do. It was simple, he would explain when they got there. From somewhere deep inside he felt the tiny rattle of madness. Felt its eyes on him from the backseat. He growled again, humming softly to himself. Bobby shifted uncomfortably and Dean pressed down on the accelerator. Only a few more hours now, only a few more.

_'Tis a maxim tremendous, but trite:  
>And you'd best be unpacking the things that you need<br>To rig yourselves out for the fight._

_**To Be Continued**_


	3. Chapter the Second

_A/N: Thank you all for reading and reviewing! I hope you will happily find some promised... well not to spoil but someone might be hurt, just saying. On a random and completely unrelated note—I remember years ago someone in a film history class bringing up the idea that all of the movie _Gladiator _was actually a death dream and Maximus never left the forest in Germany. Huh. Weird. Anyway, let us not wait, the hunt must go on. Mimsiest thanks to Merisha and a gribbling Bandersnatch lurks for..._

**Chapter the Second**

**Three Months Before**

_It next will be right  
>To describe each particular batch:<br>Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,  
>And those that have whiskers, and scratch. <em>

The wind was wrapping around them, rushing up the face of the cliff, sweeping across the crest of the hill. Dean leaned over, looking into the chasm where the ranger fell. The trees were moving in the breeze and, just for an instant, something else. The pines moved back and forth with the passage of something moving through them, then it was gone.

"Did you see that?" Sam asked, pointing to the area Dean had been watching. "Just like when we were kids."

"I knew we saw something." Dean straightened and looked around. Despite the lingering horror of the ranger's death, the sense of peace this part of the world brought him was slowly creeping back. Taking a deep breath, he started walking along the path that led to the very end of the Look-Out area. Sam was pacing along the other side of the crest, watching both the canyon below and the area immediately around them.

Dean didn't know what he was looking for, he never really did until he saw it. That was the thing about this work, every case was different, even a simple salt and burn _always_ had something unique. It just took time to learn what was supposed to be there and what was out of place. A few rocks were disturbed, which looked promising until he noticed a large boot print. He moved on. A feather twisted on the wind, floating up and over him. Some instinct had him jumping to catch it. It was one of the largest feathers he'd ever seen, black—a sooty black, not glossy like a crow or raven. In fact, it almost seemed like the feather was absorbing the light and making a tiny cold spot of shadow on his hand. He looked around, there were three other feathers, one bright blue, one brown stripped and one nothing more than a bit of fluff. None of them were large. The one he was holding was almost as long as his arm.

"Hey, Dean, look at this," Sam said, walking over with something in his hand. He held it out so Dean could look at the gray object. "Claw?"

"I guess, from the color." Dean took it, and handed Sam the feather. "It doesn't really feel like a claw, though, does it?"

"Not really, it seems too dense, but..."

"We have no clue what we are dealing with. Which is just great." He looked at the mountains in the distance, the Seven Devils, and sighed. A single white cloud drifted through the otherwise blue sky. "So, let's eat."

"Dean?" Sam was giving him one of those looks. Luckily, it was one of the disapproving, but amused looks, which meant his brother was mostly teasing. "A picnic?"

"Yeah, I'm starved," he said, heading back to the Impala. He dragged the Coleman cooler out of the back, set the claw and feather one of the many boxes, and shut the trunk.

Sam was sitting on the hood of the car, staring across the gorge. Dean followed his glance, but couldn't see anything except a circling buzzard. Thinking about it, that was probably what his brother was watching, the birds were common in the area, and contrary to popular belief they didn't just appear when there was something dead in the vicinity. Like hawks and eagles, they rode the thermals, lazily spinning in the sky, always with their eye out for a potential meal, but Dean suspected it was a lot like a long drive in the car. There was a potential hunt along the way, but it was more about the ride.

He set the cooler down and opened it. Setting the bread, chips, lunch meat, cheese slices and condiments on the car next to his brother. "The usual?" Dean asked, opening the bread.

"Yeah."

Dean grinned. His brother preferred health food almost all the time. There were occasions, however, when Sam indulged in food that came closer to Dean's usual fare. Picnics were one of those times. After slathering the bread with a thick layer of Miracle Whip and mustard, Dean added Bread and Butter pickles, then cheese and bologna and finally topped it off with a carefully arranged layer of potato chips. He put the top piece of bread on, smashed everything flat and handed the sandwich to Sam. After making the same thing for himself, he fished a couple of Cokes out of the cooler, closed the lid and sat beside Sam.

They ate in comfortable silence. Dean was enjoying the same sense of freedom he'd captured during their visit when they were children. The view was even better than he remembered. _Take that Grand Canyon. _He would still like to see the Grand Canyon, it was on his list, but this felt almost like their secret. There was no one else around, no sound of cars or trucks, no tour guide or cell phones going off. Just the two of them, the car and the broad blue sky.

The Perfect Picnic—Winchester Style.

Sure, there was something out there that might have killed five—_no, six_, Dean corrected himself—people, one less than half an hour before, but that was almost as much a part of their outings as the sandwiches and chips. He couldn't remember a picnic that was just a picnic, or a camping trip that was just a camping trip. There was always a reason, always a hunt. This was no different, and as odd as some people might find it, the missing people, the death he'd just witnessed was let go, and he was enjoying what he could.

"Does the hotel have internet?" Sam broke the silence.

"They all do now, don't they?"

"You didn't check?" The look of horror on his brother's face nearly made Dean choke on his sandwich. "Dean?"

"Of course they do, Sammy, what do you think I am, dumb or something?"

His brother snorted. "Don't do Lina Lamont, just don't."

"People? I ain't people..."

"Bite me." Sam frowned. "It's moving again."

Dean glanced down into the chasm, the trees were moving with the passage of something, whipping back and forth as it slipped through. The creature—or whatever it was—was moving along the tree line at high speed. He had no idea how fast it was going, but it covered the ground almost faster than he could track. That was why it took him a moment to realize it was heading straight towards the barely visible fire spotter's tower on the next ridge. Dean slid off the hood and shielded his eyes from the sun. As he watched, the tower flickered out of sight. "What the hell?" he said softly, unable to pull his gaze from the spot. The tower was gone, completely gone, not a single trace. He reached into the car and grabbed the binoculars, kicking himself for not getting them when he'd first spotted the movement. There was nothing there, just the empty holes where the posts had been. Just to the left was another set of holes and a little further up the slope several more.

"Check it out," Dean said, handing the glasses to his brother. He gathered up the picnic items while Sam trained the binoculars across the valley.

"I count five, maybe six?" Sam said thoughtfully.

"That's what I thought." Something nudged the back of his mind. "I'll be right back." He glanced down the long line of the road and started walking. As he walked, a memory bubbled up from childhood, the fire spotter talking about sometimes he saw strange things, and that was when he knew it was time to head into town. The memory was so clear, Dean knew if he could just pull it up a little further, he could figure out what was bothering him. _Did he actually say what he'd seen? _

"Dean!" Sam's voice was anxious, bordering on panic. "Hey, man, come on."

Dean opened his eyes—and froze. He was flat on his stomach, balanced on a tiny ledge of lava hanging over the chasm. "Wha...?"

"Give me your hand." Sam was reaching down, his hand several feet above Dean's head.

Tearing his eyes from the drop beneath him, Dean lifted a hand—and felt his body slip a fraction of an inch, but even that was too much, considering another few inches and he would fall. He closed his eyes and rolled so he was wedged more firmly against the fact of the cliff, then slowly eased his body up, reaching up, until Sam locked a hand around his wrist. As soon as that contact was made, his brother started pulling back, hauling him up, Dean helped as much as he could and when he was over the top, he just lay with his legs still over the edge, staring up at the sky.

"What the hell were you doing?" Sam asked calmly.

"I just wanted to check out the spot where we were when we were kids, when Al stopped the car. It was back down the road."

"No." The dangerous calm in his brother's voice alerted Dean to a Sam at DefCon Four. "You were walking down the road and just stepped off the edge."

"I didn't, I wasn't even close, I was walking on the road."

"You walked over to the edge and just stepped off."

Dean swiped his hand over his face, brushing the sweat out of his eyes. When his hand came away bloody, he stared at it. "I'm bleeding."

"Because you jumped off the cliff." Each word came out a little louder until the last blasted out with enough force to echo around them several times, the sound ricocheting over the chasm. Dean heard Sam stand up and the next moment he was leaning over him. "You probably need stitches." Without even asking, Sam grabbed him and hauled him up and away from the edge. Sometimes he forgot how strong his baby brother was, and the ease with which Sam manhandled him back to the Impala, wrenching the door open and almost tossing him into the passenger seat was frightening. After slamming the door, Sam stalked around and dropped into the driver's seat. "There is no way I am letting you drive, you'd probably just drive us off the cliff."

"Funny, Sammy."

"Not really," Sam growled, and turned the car on, giving it enough gas so the Impala growled at him too.

Sam drove down a little faster than Dean would have liked, and stayed in the center of the road. He didn't ease over until they were almost all the way back to Imnaha. Sam pulled into the parking in front of the small store, and turned off the car. He glanced over at Dean, huffed and got out. Dean assumed the huff meant "stay" and since his head was starting to pound, and there were other aches he was beginning to notice, he decided to humor his brother and stay put.

His brother was back a few minutes later with a cold six pack of pop and a bag of ice. He opened the glove box, dug out the pain pills, handed one to Dean, opened one of the cans, waited for Dean to put the pill in his mouth, then handed him the soda as well. Once that was done, Sam opened the bag of ice, put some in a ziploc bag and set it on Dean's head, then closed the bag again and laid it on Dean's chest.

"Are your ribs broken or just bruised?"

"Feel bruised."

"Okay." Sam pulled out and headed back towards their hotel.

After several minutes of silence, Dean turned the radio on, the sound of the car, Ozzy's "Crazy Train" and the pain killers lulled him into a doze, so the next thing he was really aware of was Sam pulling up in front of their room. Dean moved the mostly melted bag of ice off his chest and opened the door. Sam was there to help him up and into the room, easing him gently onto one of the beds before heading to the car to get the first aid kit. When Sam opened it and got the suturing kit out, still without a word, Dean was starting to freak, by the time his brother had put in five stitches and checked his ribs, still in that eerie silence, Dean was completely freaked out. "Sammy?"

"You just walked off the edge."

"I didn't."

"Yeah, Dean, you did. You just walked over to the edge of the cliff and stepped off. I was standing there, and I couldn't get to you in time." Sam paced away, then turned, fury on his face. "There was no way I could get to you! You just walked off the cliff! If that ledge hadn't been there, Dean..." Sam stopped, swallowed and turned away. "I thought you were... Even when I got there, you weren't moving, I thought..."

"Sam," Dean said softly. What could he possibly say to make it better. If he'd watched Sam do the same thing... He pushed himself up, walked over and nudged his brother. "But I'm not."

"Yeah." Sam leaned against him for a second. "You want to shower? I'll start researching." He moved away and grabbed his laptop. Dean watched him for a minute, then shrugged and headed into the bathroom.

After the shower, Dean felt better. His head was clear, he hadn't even realized there was a fog until it was gone. Something had happened between the time he saw the fire spotter's tower disappear and the moment Sam hauled him back over the lip of the chasm. He wandered back into the main room, Sam was frowning at the computer screen.

"Find anything?" Dean asked, sitting carefully on the bed. His ribs were definitely bruised and he was ignoring the creak on the left that might be a break.

"Yeah, but it's weird." Sam looked up, his eyebrows climbing in bemusement.

"Weird is what we do, Sammy."

"This is weird even for us."

"So, I should be worried?"

"Maybe." Sam looked back at the screen and poked at the keyboard with more violence than Dean thought it probably deserved. "They've lost a total of fifteen towers over the years up there—not including the ones lost to 'known causes' like fire and vandalism."

"Huh?"

"Fifteen towers, built by the National Forest Service have just vanished without a trace."

"Fifteen? And they just kept building them?"

"According to this—it's a blog by a former spotter—they kept moving them, hoping they would fix the problem."

"Only the problem can't be fixed, it has to be killed?" Dean leaned back and looked at his brother. Sam was in full hunt mode, a little excited, a little worried, a lot intense.

"Yeah, I think so, only I can't find anything that really fits the pattern except..."

"Except?"

"Bernie, the guy with the blog, he has this quote in one of his entries, I thought it was random, he goes off on tangents. They fired him for..."

"Being a little nuts?"

"More than a little, Dean. Anyway, he has this quote 'its fondness for bathing-machines/which it constantly carries about'," Sam said.

"Um, okay?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought, but I went looking anyway, and that quote is associated with a creature, only..."

"I don't like that look."

"What look?"

"The 'I am weirded out by this, it can't be real, cause if it is we're in a deep pile' look."

"I have a look for that?"

"Oh hell yeah."

"Huh."

Dean sighed. "What's the look for? You found the quote in some ancient demonology and we are dealing with the god of the underworld? A Sumerian text and it's a creature that eats humans for breakfast?"

"No."

"No? Then why the look?"

"It's from—get this—Lewis Carroll."

Dean opened his mouth, closed it again and stared at his brother. "What?"

**Present**

_**Two months, three weeks, six days, ten hours, forty-two minutes, eighteen seconds after**_

The landscape was moving by, the road whizzing past, the canyon walls easing along in slow motion. It was divided, like everything else was, between reality and madness, the quick days and long nights, the instant it took for the insanity to grip him, the hours it took to leave. Dean glanced at Bobby, the man was staring straight ahead, his face white, a death grip on the gun in his hand. _When did he grab that?_ Dean didn't blame the older hunter. If it had been reversed, he probably would have put Bobby down weeks ago. Once he'd listened to the madness that came with the dreams.

If they were dreams, because the dream insisted it wasn't.

He laughed softly, Bobby looked at him, his eyes wide, fear sparking to life in the depths. Dean smiled. "Don't worry, we're almost there." It was the first thing he'd said in hours, maybe days, who know anymore?

"And then, Dean?"

Dean laughed again, hearing the edge in it himself. "And then? I told you."

Bobby gripped the gun tighter.

_Thus the Barrister dreamed, while the bellowing seemed  
>To grow every moment more clear<em>

_**To Be Continued**_


	4. Chapter the Third

_A/N: Thank you all for reading and reviewing, and for your patience galore, I meant to post sooner, but things were a little add and stopped the process of more. From here on out, I will hope without doubt to keep the schedule clear. Uh, I might have been reading too much Snark. Extra mimsiest thanks to Merisha and a frumsiest Bandersnatch for TraSan._

**Chapter the Third**

**Three Months Ago**

_By which you may know, wheresoever you go,  
>The warranted genuine Snarks<em>

The motel room was quiet, the soft hum of the refrigerator and the whir of the fan in the laptop were the only sounds. Dean was staring at his brother as if Sam had just suggested the monster that was killing people came from a children's book. _Oh, wait. He did. _"Lewis Carroll?" Dean asked, hearing the scoff of disbelief in his voice. "Like _Alice in Wonderland_?"

"Yeah, only not Alice, it's from another work, a poem."

"Poetry, Sammy? The monster is from a poem?"

Sam huffed at him. "A lot of monsters are."

"Name one."

"Grendel."

"Okay, fine. Name two."

"Sylphs, vampires..." His brother raised his eyebrows. "Did you want more?"

"Bite me. Okay, so Lewis Carroll wrote a poem about a creature that Bernie the nutcase quotes in his blog, what kind of creature?"

There was a long hesitation. Sam cleared his throat, glanced around, then looked up, obviously bracing himself. "A Snark."

Dean burst out laughing. "A what?"

"A Snark, he describes it in 'The Hunting of the Snark'."

"You're serious."

"Bernie seemed convinced, and once you know what he's talking about some of his other ravings make more sense."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, he talks about the crisp air in the late afternoon, how it feeds at five and can be heard growling at the slightest provocation—his words."

"And all this makes it a Snark?"

"I think so, if I am reading the poem right, or if Bernie was." Sam sighed. "I'm going to see if I can track down a few more leads."

"On the Snark?" Dean shifted, his head was starting to pound. "Maybe I'll just rest my eyes for a second or two."

"Sure," his brother muttered, already distracted and tapping at the keys on his computer.

The sound of the door opening and the scent of fried pork woke Dean. He cracked open an eye, his brother was setting two bags down on the table. Dean slowly sat up, groaning as his ribs creaked, one of them was definitely cracked, now that he was a little more aware of it. How far had he fallen? All he really remembered was Sam's panicked face, how far down it was from where he had landed and how long it had seemed to take his brother to drag him up the cliff face... It must have been at least... He stopped himself, he didn't really want to know.

"I got dinner," Sam said, glancing over with a smile.

"Fried pork chop sandwiches?" Dean asked, sniffing the aroma again.

"Yeah, just like they used to make them, but I bought beer on the way back." Sam grinned.

Dean felt an answering grin. "We never got the chance to try them with beer." The town was small enough that they remembered the Winchesters and had refused to sell Dean any alcohol on their last pass through the area when he was seventeen.

"We always planned to." Sam sat at the table, pulled out two take-out boxes and opened a couple of bottles of beer. "It's from a local-ish micro brewery."

As he stood, carefully cradling his ribs, Dean frowned. "Local-ish?"

"That's what the girl who convinced me to by it said." His brother smiled and blushed.

"Oh, so it's like that, is it?"

Sam huffed. "No."

"Oh yeah, so like that. You bought it because she suggested it." Dean sniggered, and took a sip. "Not bad though." He opened the box and grabbed the sandwich, taking a bite and savoring the spicy breading and the perfectly cooked chop. "Oh, god, it's better than I remember."

"Try not to drool on the table."

"Mmm, not..." Dean took another bite, chased it with some beer, then looked over at his brother. "You find any leads?"

Sam nodded and set his food down. "I think Bernie was onto something."

"The Snark?" Dean raised his eyebrows

"Yeah, Dean, the Snark," Sam replied, with _that _look on his face. "But that's just the tip of the iceberg. I think Carroll was a hunter. Well, Charles Dodgson, was. He was Lewis Carroll."

"Yeah, I knew that."

"Right, anyway, I think he was on the hunt for something big, really big, and trying to let other hunters know what was going on without giving himself away." Sam shoved his food aside, grabbed his computer and hauled it over.

"Why?"

Sam looked up, his eyes bright with excitement. Dean hid a smile. His brother on the hunt. "There was a group of hunters at the time that were going after a bunch of creatures. Victorian England was full of stories of them, that's really when a lot of what we know started getting published."

"With you so far."

"I think Carroll and his friends were after something big, it had been taking people for years and they were trying to hunt it down. He dropped hints in all his poetry, but 'The Hunting of the Snark' is the one with the most important information. It logs the fate of his fellow hunters—one went insane, one was taken by the creature. And I think it tells us what we need to kill it, we just have to figure out the code."

"I don't like the sound of that. What do you mean code?

"He says, repeatedly that the hunters need thimbles and care, forks and hope, threaten it with railroad stock and charm it with smiles and soap." Sam frowned. "The thing is the thimbles, forks and smiles are always paired with the other—hope, care and soap."

"He was rhyming."

"He could have changed it, but he is very careful to repeat the exact phrasing over and over:

… seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care/To pursue it with forks and hope/To threaten its life with a railway-share/To charm it with smiles and soap.'"

"Rhyming."

"Clue."

"Fine, what kind of clue? What good is a thimble and care? Fork and hope?" Dean grinned. "Use the forks, Luke. Use the forks."

"Dean."

"What?"

"Are you finished?"

"For now." Dean took a bite of his sandwich and looked at his brother. "Well?"

"I don't know, no one has figured it out, at least as far as Bernie could find."

"Bernie the nutcase."

"He wasn't, Dean, that's what I've been telling you."

"Because Lewis Carroll was a hunter and wrote about his hunts and the creatures in code in his poetry. Next thing you will be suggesting is..."

"Don't say it."

"Da..."

"Dean."

"Vin..."

"Dean!"

"Ci..."

"Stop." Sam huffed. "This isn't like that at all. There are solid clues, what to look for—like the towers disappearing."

"You said something about bathing machines, how does that apply to a fire tower?"

"I looked up bathing machines, and they are those little shacks on the beach that they used to have for people to change into their swimsuits. They looked a little like a fire tower." Sam turned the computer around so Dean could see a collection of images.

"Okay, so the nutcase might be right about that, but why would a creature want something like that?"

"I don't know, the poem says it carries them around because it …'believes that they add to the beauty of scenes/A sentiment open to doubt.' It makes no sense."

"I'm surprised you think it will."

"The answers are all here, we just need to know what we're looking for." Sam closed the computer. "Bernie lives in town."

"You want to go talk to him?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Visiting hours are over in an hour, I already called."

Dean sighed. _Visiting hours, figures. _

Twenty minutes later they were pulling up in front of the Shady Pines Rest Home. It was a small building, not really what Dean had been expecting, it looked more like a nice, quiet apartment complex. He got out of the car, stopping to take a deep breath as his ribs sent a wave of agony across his chest. Unable to stop the hiss of pain, he tried to cover with a little laugh. It didn't fool Sam, his brother was around the car, a hand under his elbow before Dean even had a chance to defend himself.

"You should have stayed at the motel," Sam said, concern coloring his voice.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah." There was a huff of annoyance Dean knew all too well from his brother, before Sam stalked off towards the entrance of the building.

Even though he was ahead of Dean, he knew Sam was somehow keeping an eye on him. He had no idea how his brother managed it, but since he did the same thing, he just let it go. When Dean walked into the small reception area, Sam was already chatting to the woman behind the desk. Glancing around, he was impressed by the soft colors on the walls and the quiet. In fact, it was weirdly quiet, other than Sam's conversation there were no other sounds at all, not even piped in music. _Huh. _

"I'll take you back," the receptionist said, and stood, leading them to a door. She swiped a key card and the door opened. _Then _there were sounds. Conversation, music, screams—Dean paused for a moment, but he was definitely hearing screams. "That's Gerry, don't worry, he's harmless," she said as she walked down hallways and opened another door that led out into a patio. A man in a bathrobe sat waiting in a lounge chair. "Bernie, you have visitors."

"Yeah?" the man said listlessly.

"I'll leave you. Just buzz me and I will let you out."

Sam waited until she was gone before sitting on the bench opposite Bernie's chair. "I'm Sam and that's my brother Dean. We were up at Hat Point the other day and saw something. I found your blog and wanted to talk about it."

"You wanted to come talk to old crazy Bernie, who were out in the woods fer too long and gone and went nutters," Bernie said, his eyes flicking between them. "Well, I ain't seen nothing, those are jest the ramblin's of a man who got nothin' better ta do."

Dean watched the man for a moment, the way he looked at Sam, glanced up at the sky as if he could see something there, then focused back on Sam again. "Does that work?" Dean finally said.

"What?" Sam asked.

"What?" Bernie echoed.

Dean sat on the bench beside Sam. "Does that work? That line of crap you just sold us?"

"Don't know what yer talkin' about," Bernie muttered.

"I read your blog, Bernie, and did a little research..." Sam began, but stopped when the man's eyes slid away again.

"We're hunters, Bernie," Dean offered, wondering if it would make a difference.

"Elk and deer are out of season."

"You know that's not what he's talking about," Sam said quietly.

Bernie's eyes narrowed and he actually focused on the two of them. "No, it's not. What happened while you were up there?" he asked, the accent completely gone, his voice soft.

"One of the rangers fell and vanished. We watched one of the fire towers just disappear and my brother walked off the edge of the cliff, and doesn't remember doing it," Sam answered.

"It's back, then. I thought it was. They don't let us hear much of the news in here, but things filter in, it's a small community and people do gossip when they visit, then I hear it from my fellow patients. They've lost a few up there over the last couple of months." Bernie nodded. "I was trying to figure a way out of here, but maybe I don't need to, not if you're here. I'm not much good in a fight..." He rapped his left leg, a hollow _thunk _sounded. "I lost it chasing the thing."

Sam leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him, in what Dean always thought of as his "listening" pose. That earnest face could get more information than Torquemada, and without the torture. In dire situations, Sam would toss in the _look _and maybe a hint of that smile like a lost sad puppy and people would spill their guts. "Yeah?" Sam prompted gently.

"I was up there about ten years ago when I first saw something weird. I've never been a believer, you know? In fact, I spent a lot of time scoffing at people. I worked down in the Southwest for a few years—until they decided to transfer me because I had a little too much fun at the expense of the people wandering out in the desert looking for signs of ancient aliens, you know the types."

"Oh, yeah," Dean agreed wholeheartedly. "Freaks and moron—or victims."

"There were those, I always chocked it up to the desert, human carelessness, stupidity. People walk out into nature and forget that the human organism is fairly fragile."

"No teeth, no claws, can't run fast," Dean said, meeting the man's eyes. Whatever he was, Bernie was not crazy.

"Exactly, so I hid behind that. People wander off on some foolishness and they just don't come back."

"But that's not always the case," Sam added.

"No, it's not." Bernie sighed. "And I couldn't deny that any longer when I got here and started seeing things up at Hell's Canyon. The towers disappearing, people vanishing, there were other things too, and it started to jiggle something in my memory."

"Lewis Carroll," Sam stated.

"Yes, the Snark. I'd loved the poem as a child. My father was a professor, and I memorized it and recited it as a birthday gift for him when I was six. I love Carroll, I just never realized..."

"He was writing about something real?" Sam finished for him.

"It still doesn't seem believable, and I do question my sanity."

"But something took your leg," Sam said.

"Yes, it did."

"The Snark?" Dean managed to say it without laughing.

"I'm not sure about that. There's a problem with Snarks..."

**XXX**

_**One week, one day, seventeen hours, nine minutes, forty-five seconds after**_

The werewolf nearly had him when he shot it, Dean still regretted pulling the trigger. It would have been a clean death, even half-honorable, at least to those looking in. He knew he let it get too close, he knew he wanted it to close its jaws on his throat and rip away the pain in one white hot moment of agony. The slow death was worse, humiliating, death by pin prick. Each day a little more of himself gone, each town he drove through familiar, but without the presence of Sam it was all empty. Each hunt pointless.

When he stopped that night, he got a bottle of whiskey, good stuff, the kind Sam liked when they drank together sometimes late at night after a successful hunt. Dean checked into the motel and leaned back on the bed, contemplating the long gash on his leg. The werewolf had managed to grab his coat and drag him over something before making its final move. Dean remembered it happening, only vaguely registering the pain, but not caring. Now as he looked at the wound he wondered if he should care. It wasn't good. In fact, as he looked more closely, it was definitely in the bad category.

He grabbed the first aid kit and cleaned the wound. It was the first time in a long time he'd put in stitches by himself. As it was, he just put in three at the worst part of the gash, stuck the rest together with a few butterfly closures, then laid some sterile pads over the top and wrapped it. When he was finished he took a large swig of the whiskey, it burned a fiery line down his throat. After five, his leg stopped throbbing, after eight he drifting into unconsciousness, something between exhausted sleep and a drunken haze.

He dreamed for the first time since that moment at the chasm.

Oddly, he dreamed of the room he was staying in, nearly perfect in every detail from the broken refrigerator to the toilet that was running and sounded like a creek. He could even hear the television from the room next door. But he knew it was a dream.

"Dean," the soft voice whispered, ethereal, disembodied.

"Sammy?"

"Dean!" There was a sound like a sigh, Sam's sigh when he's accomplished something, half-frustrated, half-triumphant.

"I miss you."

"Dean, I..."

There was a loud crash from outside, a wreck on the highway that ran in front of the room. Dean sat up, widely looking around the room. It had been a dream. He reached for the bottle. Just a damn dream.

**Present**

_**Two months, three weeks, six days, eleven hours, fifteen minutes, two seconds after**_

Dean didn't slow the car as he noticed the giant logging truck swing into his lane to pass a slow moving car on the other side of the highway. It didn't matter, it would miss them. He knew what needed to be done, and it would be done. The truck couldn't stop that, nothing could. The soft whisper of insanity rattled in the back seat, the scent of hot vegetation and wax filling the car now. Bobby shifted again, his hand edging towards the steering wheel as the truck headed straight for them, the horn blaring like a nightmarish creature.

"Dean!" Bobby shouted.

"What?" Dean asked calmly, moving the car over just enough so the truck missed them by inches. "He wasn't going to hit us."

"That's it, son."

"What do you mean?"

"I am not letting you go through with this," Bobby said quietly. The next moment the muzzle bit into Dean's temple. "Pull the car over."

Dean ignored him. The silence stretched for a long moment, then was broken by the distinctive _snick _of the hammer being drawn back on the gun.

"I'm serious. Pull over."

_And with senseless grimaces endeavored to say  
>What his tongue could no longer express <em>

_**To Be Continued**_


	5. Chapter the Fourth

_A/N: Come listen my men and I will tell you again or words both large and small,  
><em>_but which you may know an epic point has come before us all.  
><em>_This chapter you see, with action and glee marks one million words.  
><em>_And though brillig is past, my joy is bounding to the point of absurd._

_Sorry, I had to do that. And yes, this posting marks ONE MILLION posted words here on Fanfic. THANK YOU ALL with Mimsiest Thanks and Hugest hugs for coming along on the ride. I know sometimes I go a little odd, so thank you even more for reading through those! Thank you all for reading and reviewing. You are all invited to tea, with me, a white rabbit and at least one snark! A huge and mimsiest borogrove thanks to Merisha. _

**Chapter The Fourth**

**Three Months Before**

"_For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,  
>Yet, I feel it my duty to say,<br>Some are Boojums"_

The soft breeze had the scent of pine and some kind of flower, sweet and spicy at the same time. Muted screams from inside the building mixed with the gentle notes of a bird's song and the laughing note of a crow. Dean was staring at Bernie. "Snarks? There's a problem with Snarks?" he asked, the disbelief back in his voice.

"Dean," Sam hissed.

"Yes, there is," Bernie answered seriously. "A big one. Have you read the poem?"

"No," Dean admitted.

"Yeah," his brother said.

"So? What's the problem?"

Sam frowned and shook his head. "I'm not..."

"It's not the Snarks that are the problem, it's the Boojums."

"Right!" Sam nodded. "Common Snarks 'do no manner of harm' but some are Boojums."

Dean shifted his stare to his brother. "Boojums? Sammy? Really? The Snark wasn't bad enough but now I have to believe there's a Boojum? Whatever the hell that is?"

"Boojums are horrible creatures," Bernie said earnestly. "They're what Carroll and his friends were hiding from there at the end. It's why he wrote the poem. He was sure they'd caught on and he was running for his life." He leaned closer. "It was his last work, he died of 'the flu' sometime after. I think a Snark or one of its minions got him."

"Minions?" Dean rolled his eyes.

"Bandersnatches, raths, there are others, but they're out there, you have to watch for them. They'll be on the look out for you, once they know you're hunting a Snark."

"I thought Snarks weren't a problem," Dean said, trying not to laugh.

"Common ones, but they aren't all common, are they?" Bernie snapped. "Something took my leg, and the towers, and a lot of people. A _lot_ of people."

"How many?" The emphasis interested Dean more than he wanted to admit.

"In the last twenty years, as near as I can tell, almost a hundred."

"A hundred?" Dean stood. "How? That many people would be all over the news!"

"Not really, Dean," Sam said reasonably. "Think about it, this is a Wilderness area. Hikers, game hunters, fisherman, they all go missing, one or two at a time, and five a year over twenty years is maybe high, but not as high as some places we've been."

"Maybe."

"I know, if I were in charge, I'd investigate, especially with the missing towers, the odd fires. It's a strange place up there. And it's all because of the Snarks."

"Or Boojums?"

"I hope not," Bernie said. "I hope it's just Snarks, they're bad enough."

"So how do we stop them?" Dean asked, settling down again.

"I don't know."

"There are clues in the poem," Sam prompted.

"I never figured them out. Thimbles and forks and railroad stock. I have no idea what he meant."

"They are always paired, could that have something to do it?"

Bernie sighed. "I don't know. I spent a lot of time going over the part of the poem about the hunt, but I never got anything solid. Once I lost my leg and my partner..." He looked away and cleared his throat. "He went over the edge. That's when I came here."

Dean looked over at his brother. Bernie was sane, but the loss of his partner had wounded him. It was in his eyes, once you knew what to look for. Dean knew the feeling, knew it all to well. Every time Sam had a close call, that tiny edge of madness crept into his own eyes, he'd seen it in the mirror. "I understand," Dean said quietly. "If it is a... a... Snark, we'll stop it." Something occurred to him. "All those people, where are the bodies?"

"Don't know that, no remains have ever been found."

"Nothing?" Sam asked.

"Nothing, not even a tooth."

"But shouldn't there be..." Sam trailed off, his eyes focused in the distance, thinking hard.

"I don't like that look," Dean said, watching his brother.

"What look?" Bernie glanced at Sam.

"The 'we've missed something and we're screwed' look'."

"He has a look for that?"

"Oh hell yeah. Sam, what?"

"We're missing something."

"See, told ya," Dean said to Bernie. "What are we missing?"

"I'm not sure." Sam frowned. "I think we need to go back out there tomorrow."

"They've got to be stopped," Bernie agreed. "How can I help?"

"Tell us everything you can think of, everything," Sam said.

Bernie took a deep breath and started talking.

"The guy is nuts," Dean said as they left forty minutes later. "I thought he wasn't. He had me fooled, but he's nuts. One hundred percent grade A wacko."

"He's not, Dean, you know he's not."

"Snarks, Boojums, Bandersnatches, raths and everything else?"

"Demons, wendigos, vanirs, ghosts..." Sam huffed as they reached the car. "If you told someone what we spend our time doing, they would think you were nuts."

"They wouldn't."

"Dean."

"Okay, fine, so they would, maybe. A little. But he is!" Dean dropped into the driver's seat. "Did you hear what he was saying there at the end? It didn't even make sense!"

"It was from a poem."

"I rest my case."

"Someone did fall, and they vanished. The fire tower did, right before our eyes."

"Yeah, but that could be an angry spirit." Dean shifted, his ribs were starting to ache, and the pounding in his head had reached an epic level sometime around the recitation of "Jabberwocky".

"It's not, there _is_ something else up there. We saw it when we were kids."

"Yeah," Dean said softly. "We saw something. You're right, we'll check it out tomorrow." He sighed. It was a wild goose chase, but it wasn't the first.

As a nightmare slowly receded the next morning, Dean woke to a quiet room. He shifted painfully over and glanced at the other bed. Sam was gone. "Sam?" When he received no answer, he pushed himself up and stood. The laptop was on the table, the door to the bathroom was open. "Sammy?" There was a little note of worry in his voice, he heard it, despite the fact he knew his brother had probably just gone out for coffee or something. Taking a deep breath, Dean headed into the shower, there was a note taped to the mirror. _"Gone to get breakfast and get back-country permit at ranger station. Back by ten. Take something for the pain. DO IT—S."_

Dean noticed Sam had left the bottle of meds sitting on the sink. "I'm just doing this to humor you," he told the note, and opened the bottle. He turned the shower on and got in under the hot spray. Between the meds and the heat, the stiffness started to ease, and by the time he got out and was dressed, he was feeling almost normal. Dean was just pulling out his phone to call his brother, when he heard the Impala rumble up to the door.

"Hey," Sam said, opening the door, carefully balancing two cups of coffee. He handed a cup to Dean, set a bag on the table, then sat down. "I got us a back-country permit and talked with one of the rangers. He's been working here for twenty years."

"Oh?" Dean pulled a container out of the bag and opened it, grinning at the eggs, bacon and pancakes. "Good work."

"For the info?"

"The food." He gestured for Sam to continue as he started eating.

"The ranger—Kevin—didn't want to talk at first, but once he found out we'd already been talking to Bernie, he started telling me more."

"Snarky stuff?"

"He didn't say it was a Snark, but he did know about the disappearances. And there have been more than Bernie knows about, from before he started working here. They also lost two permanent line shacks."

"Let me guess, they looked like bathing machines?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. They just were gone. No one witnessed it, there were no charred logs, they were just gone."

"Does he have a theory?"

Sam looked at the table, the far wall, the door, the computer and then back at the table. "Yeah," he said, glancing up at Dean.

"Oh, this is going to be good."

"Aliens."

Dean started laughing. "This case just keeps getting better. Snarks and aliens. What's next?"

"Well..."

"Sammy, just get it over with."

"He said he's actually seen their landing craft."

"Right." Dean put his finger to his temple and made like he was pulling a trigger. "Kill me now."

"Something is going on, though. He showed me official reports made by hikers of strange lights, weird sounds, screams, and abandoned campsites."

"He showed you official reports?"

"Yeah, for our book."

"On?" Dean raised his eyebrows waiting patiently. From the look on his brother's face it was going to be a good one.

"I mentioned it after he started talking."

"Yeah?"

"Accident or Abduction: disappearances, attacks and proof of aliens in the American West."

"And you said that with a straight face."

"I did."

"Only because I wasn't there." Dean grinned. "Although we have to save that one. It sounds almost legit—to a freak."

"It worked. I got the info, including some archaeological reports. An entire village seems to have disappeared from the area in 1879, all that's left is post holes, and there is no evidence that the group moved on, no evidence of fire. Just a layer of habitation, then nothing. There is another, similar layer, below the Mazama ash layer."

"Um?"

"Mount Mazama, it's now Crater Lake. Everything above it is later than the volcano. So whatever our creature is, it was in the area before 5,677 B.C.E."

"Huh. Handy."

"What's that, Dean?" Sam frowned at him.

"Oh, the layer. It would be nice if we had something that concrete on every case. I'm not sure if it means anything or not, but we have a nice firm 'we think it was definitely maybe here' date. We don't usually have those unless it's a spirit."

"We don't," Sam agreed. "Are you up to a little hiking?"

"Yeah, I'm feeling better."

"Better or not dead yet?"

"I'm not dead yet." Dean grinned. "Had to do a quick geek check. Make sure you aren't slipping, you know. I haven't been as careful lately, and I noticed you completely missed the _Star Wars _reference the other day."

"I didn't."

"You so did!" Dean stood and started getting things together to take with them.

"I didn't."

"We pulled up at that dive bar, out on the coast, and I said 'Joe's Bar and Grill at the Port, you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,' and you did not say 'We must be cautious.' Which you should know is the next line."

Sam huffed at him. "It's your line. It's a whole quote."

"Oh no, you know the game, you're supposed to finish it. Geek points lost. Hard to make up. I was a little sad. So now you will be tested regularly."

They walked out into the bright sunshine. Dean took a deep breath, savoring the scent of the pine and dust, even though it caused a hard twinge of pain across his chest. He stopped to watch two large birds circling lazily in the sky, Sam opened the driver's door of the Impala and dropped in. Dean turned around and got in the car.

It still felt like a vacation.

**XXX**

**One week, six days, three hours, forty-two minutes, eleven seconds after**

It had been a spirit. Simple salt and burn—well as easy as those cases ever were. Dean planned an in and out, of course it had taken a little longer than that. Research always took longer when he was alone. He could do it, he wasn't bad at it. That wasn't the problem. Sam had always been better at finding that one off-the-wall fact that made it quicker and easier to solve the case. But worse than that, researching alone just underscored the fact he was alone. There was no quiet tapping of keys beside him, no mumbling as his brother found something interesting then nudged him and pointed it out. Twice during research in the newspaper's file room, Dean had to leave to walk off the ache in his chest and solve the blurring tears in his eyes.

He'd tracked it down though, and it had been a fun one. The kind he would once have felt better after, the kind that there was no question if it was the right thing to do. A killer who had just kept up in death what he'd done in life, anchored to the place where he himself had been murdered, still torturing and taking lives. It had been nearly a hundred years since he'd been killed, and he had become discrete, only appearing to have his party on the two weeks surrounding the date of his death.

Once he was on the trail, Dean found the burial. His prey had objected to the idea of having his bones salted and burned, but in the end, he went up like so many before. Dean limped back to the car, a little bloody, sore from bruises that he couldn't see, but he knew would blossom over night and headed back to his motel.

It was bad, even by their "scale of motels, inns and hotels", Sam would have given it five toilets in the little book they kept of places they'd stayed at over the years. Even when he was checking in, Dean had known it was a pit. There was a large cockroach happily wandering along one side of the desk, completely ignored by the staff, and a large rat trap sat beside the snack machine. On the way to the room, he spotted the reason for the trap, several in fact. Large, fat wharf rats closer to the size of a small dog than any rodent should be. The room itself was functional. It had a bed, the toilet sort of worked, the shower trickled a lukewarm stream of water. The coverlet on the bed didn't actually puff out dirt when he sat on it.

Dean opened the door and tossed the key onto the nightstand by the bed. After locking the door, he went into the bathroom to get a better look at one of the wounds the spirit had given him. The mirror was broken, but he could get a good enough view to tell he didn't need stitches. It still hurt, and luckily he had a plan for that. It was his new plan of action. He walked out of the small room and picked up a bottle. It might not be good sleep. _Hell, it's probably not even sleep at all. _But he could drink himself numb and forget the ache, forget the empty passenger seat, forget his missing brother and dream that the next hunt would just solve it all for him.

He dreamed, not of a hunt, but of the hotel room. It was as it had been when he'd picked up his bottle and fallen on the bed, except a rat was sitting on the heater by the door and there were bugs scurrying across the floor. It was one of those dreams that had a sense of reality to it. The kind that once awake it took hours to shake.

"Dean." A soft whisper, muted, almost ghost-like.

"Sammy," he answered immediately.

"Dean!" Excitement vibrated in the whisper.

"I miss you," Dean said, knowing he'd said it before. He said it every day, to the empty seat beside him, to the empty chair at diners, surely this whisper that sounded like Sam deserved to hear it.

"Yeah, me too," Sam replied, the voice echoing weirdly in the way they sometimes did in dreams.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Letting you fall."

"We need to talk about that."

Dean laughed, at least he _was_ going insane. "We do?"

"We do!" Sam sighed, then there was a soft sound, like his brother had inhaled like he always did before laying a case out before him.

The rat jumped off the heater and onto the bed. It hit Dean full in the chest. He threw the creature off, instinct reacting faster than his alcohol fogged brain. He jerked awake at the same time. The rat was racing across the room, unharmed by its flight. Dean picked up the bottle again. Another damn dream. He laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

"We still need to talk," Sam whispered.

"Sammy?" Dean said to the dark, empty room.

**Present**

Two months, three weeks, six days, eleven hours, sixteen minutes, thirteen seconds after.

It was hot in the car, the engine rumbled, growling out a counterpoint to the harsh sound of Bobby's breathing. The truck was long past, other cars had gone by on the other side, not one of the drivers noticing the drama in the large black car. Dean moved his head slowly, letting the barrel of the gun slide across his forehead. He met Bobby's eyes for a moment, then turned away. "Go ahead. Shoot. You know shooting the guy who's driving is not really a good idea."

"Pull the car over, Dean."

"No," Dean answered easily, leaning into the barrel, letting Bobby know he had no intention of backing down. "You said you were with me."

"When I thought we were looking for Sam, when I thought you wanted to give your brother the burial he deserved." Bobby paused, taking a breath. "I didn't know."

"Know what?" Dean pulled into the passing lane, going around a large, slow-moving pick-up packed with flat stone.

"About this damn fool plan." The older hunter sighed. "Dean, this is insane."

"Insane? Why?"

"Oh, I don't know," Bobby growled. "Something about ending the world?"

"Only if I do it wrong."

The madness rattled in the backseat. Dean didn't turn to look, didn't even acknowledge its presence. It was there, it was always there.

In fact, it was why he was here.

_Too nervous to utter a word:  
>When it rose to its feet, there was silence like night,<br>And the fall of a pin might be heard. _

_**To Be Continued**_


	6. Chapter the Fifth

**Chapter the Fifth**

**Three Months Before**

_Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky,  
>And they knew that some danger was near<em>

The road wound ahead of them, winding through the golden valley like a gray snake. There was an old Victorian ranch house on the right hand side of the road, several horses grazing up against the fence as the Impala rolled past. Dean grinned, Sam had his foot down a little more than usual, letting the car get her head up and run, like the antelope racing along in a field ahead of them. Every once in awhile Sam got the urge to let the Impala go, and when he did, the miles would fly by. The first time it had happened, he remembered teasing Sam about it, and his brother had calmly replied the car made him do it.

As they reached Imnaha, Sam slowed through town, then eased the car onto the road up towards Hat Point. They planned to stop at a spot about halfway up, there was a spot that was wide enough to allow a car to park and still leave room for two cars on the road—one of the very few spots on the narrow road, in fact. After spending time with a map, they had decided to park there and walk up one of the small side canyons that Bernie claimed was a hot spot for Snarks.

"What do we take with us?" Dean said, opening the trunk and looking at their weapons collection. He tucked his gun in the hidden carry pocket in his jeans, then glanced at his brother. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What do we take on the great Snark hunt?"

Sam huffed at him, the breath puffing the hair off his face. "I don't know."

"What was in the poem? Forks, thimbles?"

"I don't know," his brother growled.

"So, gun, knife..." Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah." Sam picked up the shotgun and dropped some shells in his pocket. After a minute, he picked up their small backpack and put in a canteen, the small first aid kit and a package of beef jerky. "Anything else?"

"You're the Snark expert." Dean grinned.

"Bite me." Sam closed the trunk and swung the pack on.

"Up the game trail?" There was a small path leading away from the parking area, heading up into the hills.

"I guess so," Sam answered, glancing around them, then falling in behind him.

Dean set off on the trail. The canyon rose around them, immense walls, covered with dried grass and a few stubborn trees clinging to the steep sides, tenacious gnarled roots below straight trunks, rising into the brassy blue sky. There was an odd outcropping of lava on the hill to his left, it looked almost like the turret of a ruined castle. He was just turning his eyes from it, when he thought he spotted movement.

"What?" Sam asked soundlessly the instant Dean stopped.

Dean pointed with a small nod of his head. He made sure his brother was looking up at the spot, pulled the binoculars out of the backpack, then focused on it again. "There," he whispered. There was something there, he was sure of it.

"Mirage," Sam said.

"No, wait." It happened literally in the blink of an eye. There was a tree just to the right of the tower, a shadow brushed it, and a moment later the shadow and the tree were gone. "That wasn't a mirage. You saw that right?" When Sam didn't answer, Dean turned to look at him. His brother's eyes were fixed on the spot. Before Dean could say anything, Sam started walking straight towards the canyon wall. "Hey!" He grabbed his brother and dragged him back onto the path. "Sam!"

"What?" Sam shook his head.

"What the hell was that about?" Dean snapped, a little thrum of panic beating in his chest. He realized this had to have been what happened the day before when he'd walked off the cliff in front of Sam. The day was suddenly a lot more serious than it had been a few moments before. "Do you remember anything?"

"I was looking up at that spot and..." Sam trailed off. "Then you grabbed me."

"You started heading towards the hill."

"I did?" His brother turned to frown at the canyon wall, his eyes tracking up the hill. Dean followed his glance. There weren't many trees on the west facing slope, just dried grass and bushes. About halfway between them and the "turret" was a large, long outcrop of lava, the dark maw of a cave visible in its mass. Sam shook his head. "There's nothing about them living in caves, I don't think."

"If you start reciting it, Sammy..." Dean let the threat hang.

"Unless, no, I don't think a cave counts as a 'coat that is rather too tight in the waist/  
>With a flavor of Will-o-the-wisp', do you?"<p>

Dean opened his mouth, thought about what he was going to say, closed it again, sighed, looked up at the sky, then back at Sam. "Do you?"

"I was asking."

"So was I," he said, eying Sam. "I have no clue. I'm still waiting for the Bandersnatches and the Thingumbobs to show. Like that's happening. He's a whack job."

"So what happened to the tree?"

"It was a mirage." Dean started up the path again, aware of his brother at his back, wondering if it would be better to have Sam in the lead where he could keep an eye on him. Attacking from the rear was a tactic a lot of creatures employed, but then the worry than Sam might walk off a cliff in front of him would tingle along his spine. _And of course the damn trail is too narrow to just walk together. _

The trail started to climb. It wasn't steep, and there were more trees and small shrubs than on the rest of the canyon. He thought he could hear the trickle of water every now and then, and the air did smell a little damp compared to where they had parked the car. Not much, but enough to notice in the hot, dry air. As they walked along and nothing swept out the sky to carry Sam off, or leaped off the cliffs to attack them, Dean started to relax and enjoy the day again. The heat helped relieve some of the ache in his ribs, the warmth of the sun on his back felt good and the scents surrounding him were easing him back into that sense of peace he remembered from childhood.

Just because he was beginning to enjoy himself and let go a little of the tension, didn't mean he'd stopped being aware of his surroundings, so he knew the instant when Sam paused behind him. Dean slowed and turned his head enough to catch sight of his brother, while moving his hand steadily towards the gun at his lower back. His brother was looking at something on the east facing slope, slowing even further.

"Just the light I think, maybe a broken bottle," Sam said as Dean dropped back to stand beside him. "I caught a flash of something, but it's gone."

"A tree mirage?"

"No, it sparkled."

"Oh god, not vampires."

Sam grinned. "I think I'd rather face a Snark."

"Oh hell yeah." Dean set off again. There was a fork in the trail. "Left or right?"

Sam came up beside him and looked up the trails. I think the right fork would take us up towards where Bernie lost his leg to the Snark."

"It could have been a Bandersnatch that took his leg."

"Dean," Sam huffed. "Whatever it was, something did, and his partner died."

"Yeah." Dean couldn't forget the haunted look in Bernie's eyes. That was the only reason he was out here at all. He would be willing to just write off all the disappearances to the very wild country, but something had happened. They had seen the ranger fall, the tower disappear, that thing when they were kids. And Bernie—Bernie had lost someone in a way that left a scar on his soul, the kind of mark Dean could see and understand all too well. "So, right it is."

The going was harder now, the trail starting to get steep as it wound up a small side shoot of the canyon they'd been walking in. The trees were starting to thin out and the scent of water was vanishing, replaced by the smell of hot, dry grass, pine and dust. They climbed steadily for forty minutes before Dean's ribs gave a twinge. They had just reached a wide ledge, he stepped over onto it.

"You look like you need a break, Sammy," he said, casually dropping down onto the stone.

Sam gave him a funny look, pulled the canteen out of the pack and handed it to Dean before sitting down beside him. "How far up are we?"

"Probably to that third cattle grate on the road, maybe a little higher," Dean answered, trying to see if he could get a glimpse of the road. "I don't think were up as high as that overlook."

"Kevin thought he saw a UFO there," Sam said carefully avoiding looking at him.

"Snarks and UFOs, whatever happened to the sane stuff."

"It could be sparkly vampires..."

"I take it back." Dean grinned and took a drink, before handing the canteen to Sam. It was quiet, just the sound of the wind whistling over the hills around them. No jet noise, no cars, just the two of them and a world of silence. A creature shrieked to their left, the cry a mix of a raptor's hunting call and something else. Dean turned to look in the direction of the sound. He stood to get a better look. "What the..."

It was like nothing he'd ever seen, it swept down the hill towards them, neck extended, massive teeth bared as it uttered the shriek again before snapping its mouth closed with a sound that echoed around them. Dean had his gun in his hand almost without thinking, and aimed, emptying one clip, round after round hitting the thing, he saw a small jerk with each bullet, but it kept coming straight at them. Sam was firing as well, three rounds of salt, then the buckshot in the shotgun. It was still coming. In a last, desperate attempt, Dean threw himself at his brother, knocking them both out of the path of the creature as it slammed into where they had been, its teeth shattering the outcrop of lava they'd been sitting on. As they tumbled down the hill, Dean saw it crunch down again, destroying their canteen, then with another shriek it was gone. The call was still echoing around them, but it was gone as if it had never been there at all.

Except that they were falling, slamming into the hill as they fell, until Sam managed to stop their mad descent. They lay where they landed, panting, unable to speak for several long minutes. Dean was the first to move, looking back up the hill to where the creature had been, wondering if it had been a hallucination, but the rock bore the marks of the creature's teeth. "Sam, are you okay?" he said when he could speak.

"Yeah, you?"

"Yeah." Dean took a deep breath, the fall hadn't helped his ribs. "What the hell was that thing?"

"I'm not sure," Sam said, sitting up and looking around them. "Where did it go?"

"It just vanished. I saw it, there one second then gone. Was it a..." Dean ground his teeth together. "Was it a Snark?"

"No." His brother frowned. "I don't think so." He closed his eyes, his lips moving.

"What are you..."

"Don't interrupt."

"Right, you're reciting the poem." Dean sighed, stood and walked slowly over to where his gun was laying in the grass. At least it had ended up with him and not up on the ledge for the disappearing rock cruncher to eat.

"Huh."

"Oh. I don't like the sound of that."

"Sound of what?"

"The 'I think I know what it is, but I don't want to tell him because it sucks' huh."

"I have a huh for that?"

"Oh hell yeah. So?"

"Well, there is a creature he mentions that 'swiftly drew nigh' and then it 'extended its neck.../Without rest or pause—while those frumious jaws/Went savagely snapping around'."

"Frumious? Really?" Dean rolled his eyes, Sam ignored him and waited. "That sounds like our rock cruncher, so it _is _a Snark?"

"No, it's one of the Snark's minions."

"I'm not going to like this am I?"

"It's a Bandersnatch."

Dean stared at his brother. "You're kidding." He looked up to where the rock had been torn away. "Snarks are worse?"

"Yeah," Sam said seriously. "And some are Boojums."

"When did our life get weird?"

**XXX**

**Two weeks, one day, ten hours, twelve minute, nine seconds after.**

The hunts were starting to blur together. Dean had lost track if it was a salt and burn, or a shifter, a vampire nest or something else. Daylight, darkness—it all just slid together. The only solid mark of the passage of time was that continual count in his head. It never faltered, it never lost track. He'd been knocked unconscious at one point, hitting a rock wall hard enough to leave him with blood running down his neck and that dull ache of a near concussion for several days after. But even then, during that time he was out, unconscious, he knew how much time had passed, the clock kept ticking, marking the minutes and seconds since Sam fell.

The bottle stayed with him as well. Self medicating, he'd tell himself, knowing all the time it was an escape, or an attempt at an escape. Although, alcohol did help with the pain, and there was a lot of it these days. He wasn't going out of his way to get hurt on hunts, but he wasn't as cautious as he could be, and the wounds were beginning to pile up. He was no sooner cutting one set of stitches out, than he was putting another set in. There were bruises on top of bruises, and the three broken toes from two hunts back ached continually.

His latest prey had led him on a chase that had finally ended at a trail head deep in a national forest. When the thing had turned on him, he fleetingly considered letting it take him out, but Bobby wouldn't know where to find him, and he wanted to make sure he was burned when he died. He was angry spirit material right now, and he wasn't even dead.

Rather than head all the way back into a town large enough to have a motel, Dean decided to just pull into the campground near the trail head and sleep in the car. The place was empty except for the campground host's trailer, and they were at the far end of the area. Dean found a small pile of firewood beside the fire ring and built a small fire. Once it was burning, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and a bag of chips. "They're food, Sammy," he said to the fire as he settled down on their old army blanket beside the blaze. "Potatoes are food."

Then there was that. It was becoming the only other thing that was a part of every single day. He'd started talking to Sam again. Not just the "I miss you" to the empty places in his life, not the words in his journal, where he'd always spoken to his brother—many times words he'd never say aloud. No, he was actually talking. Idle chatter, questions about the hunt, anything and everything—he knew it was just sound to fill the empty void, the aching place in his life, but he persisted. He was on a headlong race towards madness, because... _No. _He stopped the thought before it formed. It wasn't true. They were dreams.

Dean stretched out beside the fire, taking a long pull on the bottle. His foot was aching and he debated taking off the boot. If it was off, it would relieve pressure on the broken, swollen toes. _But if I have to run away from a bear or something, a missing shoe would be bad. _In the end, after several more drinks, he took the boot off, sighing when the cool air hit his foot. He bent to examine the blue and black mess of his foot, poking gently at his little toe. "Broken toes suck," he said to his foot. He took another drink, welcoming the warm buzz filling his body. Leaning back on the blanket, he watched the fire, letting it lull him into a soft doze. As he hoped, he dreamed, the fire was there, the scent of burning logs filling the air around him and the soft rush of wind through the trees whispering to him in a familiar voice.

"Dean."

"Where have you been? I miss you," Dean said to the whisper.

"I know, things aren't simple."

"They never are."

"We need to talk, Dean."

Dean sighed in his sleep. "I talk all the time, Sammy, you're not here to answer."

"That's where you're wrong."

Something brushed Dean's shoulder and he jerked awake, looking wildly around. The fire was crackling in front of him, the smoke winding up through the trees. He lifted the bottle up with a shaking hand. He was going insane, and the thing was—it didn't bother him all that much.

**XXX**

Bobby loved the Winchester boys like his own. He always had, even before John had died, he'd cared for Sam and Dean, loved them, like his own sons. He'd never had a chance to have a family, and these boys were his kin, blood not needed for the bond. When Sam had died nearly three months before, Bobby had been sure Dean would follow, and the idiot had been doing his damnedest to get there. The boy had been seriously injured more in the last couple of month than he had in the year before. Bobby had even called him on it and told him if he planned to commit suicide, he should just get it over with. Dean assured him he wasn't, he was hunting. That's all. Bobby had never noticed the edge.

Until it was too late.

They were pelting up the road, heading to the place where Sam died. Dean had originally told him they were going to find Sam and give him the burial he deserved. It was only after they were on the road that Bobby found out—and what he'd discovered tore his heart out. One of his boys was gone—and the other was completely insane. He'd tried to deny it for weeks, but it was there in Dean's eyes, he could see it now, staring steadily out at him.

Bobby held the gun against Dean's head, the younger hunter seemingly unfazed by the threat. Only adding to the proof that he'd lost his mind. For an instant, Bobby thought Dean was giving in as they slowed through Imnaha, but the victory was short lived. Dean drove through town and swung the Impala onto a dirt road barely wide enough for it and gunned the engine, the wheels spraying gravel out behind them.

He caught the quick glance Dean shot his way, the glimmer of madness that lived there. Bobby's hand was shaking. The car raced up the road, the drop off on Bobby's side of the car getting steeper and steeper. Up ahead, he could just make out a wide spot—a turn out with a sign. He swallowed.

The Dean he'd known was gone, this man had to be stopped at all cost. The turn-out was getting closer and Bobby made a decision.

He'd make his move there.

_The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care,  
>Attending to every word:<br>But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair,  
>When the third repetition occurred.<em>

_**To Be Continued**_


	7. Chapter the Sixth

**Three Months Before**

_"Should we meet with a Jubjub, that desperate bird,  
>We shall need all our strength for the job!" <em>

The sun was hot in the canyon, the scent of dust, dead grass and pine filling the air. Except for the wind it was quiet. The heat of the day had driven most things into the cool, shadowed areas under trees or in the shade of the cliffs. Dean was beginning to think that was where they should be. The sun was starting to play tricks on his senses, or maybe it wasn't. Off to his left he saw something sparkle, turning quickly, he nearly lost his footing, the only thing that saved him from a long, long fall what his brother's hand.

"Dean!"

"Did you see that?" he asked Sam as his brother shoved him up against the wall of the hill, almost cliff, they were climbing.

"See what?" Sam glanced suspiciously up the hill.

"I don't know. Mirage, I guess."

"There's a lot of that up here," Sam said with a humorless laugh. "The trail forks, which way?"

Dean followed his brother's look. The trail broke apart about ten feet above them. One path led up and onto the actual side of the hill, along a lava ledge, then further on around out of sight. It looked like the trails that covered many of the canyons in the area, the odd terraces of grazing cattle and other animals. The second trail led along a crevasse in a lava outcropping and seemed to disappear into the hillside.

"The left one looks like it goes into the hill," Dean said, squinting against the sun.

"Yeah, a cave maybe." Sam rummaged in the backpack.

"What are you looking for?"

"Just checking the flashlights."

"You think we should go that way, then." For some reason, the idea of going up and into the cave created a small, mad fluttering in Dean's chest. He knew the feeling, every instinct he had was telling him there was something bad lurking that way.

"There's something there." Sam met Dean's eyes, his look said it all.

"Right." Dean took a deep breath, shoved the fear away, turned off the "flight" part of the fight or flight instinct and headed up the path. Sam was right behind him, a solid presence at his back.

Fifteen feet up the path, it got cold. The sun was still out, the rays on his skin, sweat on his brow, but Dean was cold, like there was an ice pack buried in his chest, something that the warmth of the sun couldn't fight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam shiver. The climb was getting steeper, and he could see, far below, where the Impala sat waiting for them to return.

The path led them along the edge of an outcropping of rock for several yards before disappearing into a cave. Dean stopped, the cold in his chest expanding even as he leaned against the dark stone, heated by the afternoon sun. "I'll go in, you wait here," he told his brother.

"No."

"Someone needs to make sure nothing comes in while we are in there," Dean said calmly.

"Okay, I'll go."

"No, I'll go."

"Dean, no, I'll go."

"Sammy..." Dean couldn't explain why he was so set on not letting his brother in the cave, but the idea of Sam in there alone was almost more than he could bear. "You won't even fit."

His brother huffed in frustration. "Fine, you go. Here's the flashlight." Sam held it out.

"What?"

"No, you're right, one of us should wait out here, and with your injuries you are certainly the best one to go crawling through a cave."

Dean stared at Sam for a minute. His brother was frowning at him, that curly-Q of concern deployed at full squinch. "Fine."

"Fine."

"Whatever."

"Whatever."

"Bite me."

"Right, I'll go." Sam shucked the backpack and turned the flashlight on, ducking down to shine the light into the open maw of the cave. "I can't tell how far back it goes."

"Be careful," Dean said, fighting down a wave of panic. "Sam?"

"I'm okay," his brother said, his voice echoing weirdly. "It's getting narrow."

"Yeah?" Dean turned to glance into the cave, wondering if he should go in.

"I think I'm going to have to crawl. I hate caves."

"Remember that one in New Mexico?"

"Don't remind me," Sam said. "Ah!"

"What is it?"

"I just put my hand in, oh god..." Sam trailed off.

"Sammy, not helping."

"I think it's or it was an animal maybe."

"You're not sure?"

"No, it's, um, squishy."

"How squishy?"

"Squishy, and juicy, and it stinks," Sam said. "I think it might have been, god, Dean, I think it was human."

"You can't tell?"

"It's a puddle."

"A people puddle?"

"Yeah," Sam answered. Dean heard the distinct sound of his brother gagging. "I'm going a little further."

"Is that a good idea?"

"Something is nesting in here, or... at least feeding maybe."

Dean leaned against the rock, his eyes facing out, watchful, but one ear turned towards the cave so he could hear everything that was going on. _I should have gone. _Although his brother had been right, crawling through the cave would have been difficult. Still as he heard Sam gag again, he fought the urge to grab the other flashlight and head into the cave himself.

Movement caught his eye. Dean watched for several minutes, there was a bird circling above him, riding the thermals, its pinions out. As it swept up, he realized it was bigger than the hawk he had first taken it to be. _Buzzard then._ The birds did tend to show up when anything living paused for too long in the wild. When they were kids he remembered his brother once telling him that buzzards were the most "hopefullest birds ever." When Dean had asked why, Sam told him because they always hoped something would just drop dead for them. The memory brought a smile to his face, and as he tracked the bird, he remembered the day Sam had told him that for the first time. Momentarily distracted, he didn't notice the bird had changed direction._ It is hopeful. _

It was headed straight towards him—and it had been much further away than he'd thought. It was not a buzzard either. It was huge.

"Sam!" Dean had time to shout before it reached him, catching his shoulder with one massive talon and tossing him aside like he was a rag doll. Grabbing blindly to stop his fall, he managed to get his hand around a tree root. He looked up in time to see it coming at him again. Dean threw himself to the side at the last moment, in a controlled roll away from where it would have hit him. He took an instant to look at it. It wasn't a Bandersnatch. This was something different. And very, very angry. It was diving at him again, this time looking to the left and right of where he was, as if judging where he could go.

It didn't look good for him. It knew he wasn't moving fast, and that he was injured. It could probably smell his blood. He feinted to the left—then waited until he was sure it was headed that way, then tucked himself into a ball and rolled to the right, away from the cave. Hopefully, his brother could escape the thing, whatever it was. Dean slammed into a rock, his momentum stopped completely by the stone. The sun warmed him as he lay gasping against the ground, agony shooting through his body.

He looked up. It was there, above him, circling, ready to make its death blow. As it began its descent he closed his eyes. He'd looked death in the face one too many times.

The shot echoed around him, the crack bouncing from hill to hill and the creature above him shrieked in pain. Another shot. Dean looked up and the bird circled again, then flew straight up, he tried to track it, but he lost it in the sun. _Of course, maybe I'm dead. _

"Dean!" Sam was beside him a moment later, gentle hands checking for injuries. "Dean!"

"Maybe I'm not dead."

"What? Dean, come on." Sam's voice had that complete calm that meant he was completely freaked.

Dean opened his eyes, the sun was lower in the sky than he remembered it being. "Sam? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he answered, even though there was a cut on his forehead that left a trickle of blood on his face.

"You're bleeding."

"Yeah, well, welcome to the club," his brother snapped. "What the hell were you thinking?" Sam eased him up, helping him lean against the rock.

"Um... Get away?"

"Great."

"Why are you so pissed?"

"I'm not pissed, Dean," Sam said.

"Oh boy."

"What?"

"That is you're 'I am so pissed I am going to kill you' answer."

"Why would I do that?"

"Stop getting calmer."

"I'm not calm."

"Oh yeah, you are so calm, you're about to blow."

"Why? Why would I do that, Dean? It's not like I just watched you throw yourself off a cliff AGAIN!"

"In my defense, I was getting away from the bird."

"By killing yourself?"

"It was a plan."

"Dean..."

"Sam, I was mostly thinking 'big bird want to kill, run away'. I was not trying to kill myself."

His brother ran his hands through his hair. "I know. Sorry."

"At least we know there are things up there."

"Yeah." Sam leaned back. "Should we head further up the road?"

There was something off in Sam. "Maybe we should just head back into town, by the time we get to the car, it will be getting close to sundown."

"Dean," Sam said, his voice weird. "It won't."

"What?" Dean turned his head, the Impala was no more than a hundred feet below them. "Oh."

"Yeah." Sam stood and offered Dean his hand and hauled him to his feet.

"So, what was that thing? It didn't look like a Bandersnatch."

"I think it was a Jubjub."

"You have got to be kidding."

"I wish I was."

"Why, Sam?"

"Because I think it means we're getting close."

"And close is suddenly looking bad." Dean finished the thought for his brother.

**XXX**

**Two weeks, five days, three hours, forty-nine minutes, thirteen seconds after. **

It had been a little too close. Dean had gotten sloppy and taken a hard knock. One that combined with his still aching toes, the stitches from the last hunt, or maybe the hunt before that or maybe it had been before that, he was unsure now. The combination, however, had put him down hard for the last two days. He'd made it out of the national forest, and down the highway far enough to find a motel with nearly clean rooms. Not that he cared. The lock worked, there was a liquor store across the street, and the kid who checked him in that first night offered to deliver whatever he needed for a small fee. Dean took him up on the offer, handed him money and hobbled to his room. Half an hour later the kid appeared with two bags, one of food, one of booze and Dean settled into wait it out or not. The thing was, he was pretty sure he was finally dying.

He didn't care.

His life had started down the slope to madness. At least he was still aware enough to know it was madness—or maybe it wasn't. When he'd pulled the trigger on the thing in the forest, for a moment, he'd thought seen something glimmer deep in the forest. Then that night beside the fire... Every night, or day, whenever it was that he dreamed, the dreams were all the same. If they were dreams, if he was even asleep. Sometimes he wondered if he'd fallen, not Sam, and this aching empty place was Hell.

Dean turned on the TV, flipping around he found an all-night marathon of Godzilla and Mothra movies. It was just sound, he didn't care about those either. In half a bottle, he would hopefully be numb. The problem was it seemed to be taking longer to achieve numbness, and when he did, sleep was not comforting. There were the dreams, pursuing him through unconscious.

And consciousness.

At least he thought he was conscious sometimes. He never knew anymore. Everything had blended together into a blur of towns passing outside the Impala's windows, pain, the taste of alcohol, pain, dreams and the never-ending count. The ticker never stopped, even if he tried, it was there, calmly marking the time since Sam left, letting him know each moment that he was alone, each agonizing second that the Impala was empty, that there was no one to talk to, that...

When his phone rang, he decided to answer it. Bobby had been calling for two days. "Yeah?"

"Where the hell are you?" Bobby demanded, worry coming out as anger.

"Um, not sure. Motel somewhere. I was up in the Bitterroot Mountains the other night."

"Are you in Montana?"

"Don't know."

"Are you hurt?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Dean! Damn it, how bad?"

"Have no idea. Think I might need stitches, or I just took some out."

"Are you bleeding?"

"Uh..." Dean looked down at the blood-soaked cloth covering the latest wound. "Probably."

"What does that mean?" Bobby growled.

"If I take the bandage off, it could be bad," Dean said, feeling dreamy. The alcohol was starting to seep into him, warming him, relaxing the ache in his chest.

"Sonofabitch! Where are you?"

"Told you, don't know."

"Name of the motel, you idjit."

"Oh." Dean picked up the card beside the bed. "Shorty's Hunting Lodge."

"Right." Bobby broke the connection without another word. Dean looked at his phone for a minute, then set it carefully on the table beside him.

Dean took another drink and shifted the pillows, aware of the stickiness of the wound. Maybe he should do something about it, but moving seemed like a lot of trouble. He was also getting sleepy, and he wasn't going to do anything to interfere with that. Sleep meant dreams, and even if they just added to the madness, he would rather be insane, than not have them. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to sleep.

Of course, this was the one time it proved elusive for some reason. He stared up at the ceiling, watching the play of light from the TV on one of the many cobwebs gathered on the overhead light fixture.

"Dean?" the soft whisper surprised him.

"I didn't think you'd be here," he told it.

"Why?" the frustrated huff was all Sam.

"I'm not asleep."

"No." The way it was said was like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "No," the whisper was also sounding weary, close to the breaking point.

"If I'm not asleep, how are you here?"

In his madness, he thought a phantom weight brushed his arm. There was a soft sigh, Sam trying to explain something for the thousandth time, like when he'd tried to talk Dean through calculus a hundred years ago.

"Dean, you were never asleep."

**Present**

Two months, three weeks, six days, eleven hours, twenty-five minutes, four seconds after.

There was complete silence in the car as Dean swung it around the corner by the parking area he and Sam had stopped at three months ago. Without telegraphing his intent, Dean elbowed Bobby, yanking the gun from his hand and turning it on the other man. He'd seen what Bobby intended in his last glance at the older hunter. Bobby knew he was insane, and he was going to stop him. And as far as the older hunter was concerned that meant something permanent and fast. A bullet to the brain would solve the problem.

He looked steadily at Bobby, meeting the other man's eyes, seeing the cold fear there. For a moment he wondered what his own showed, what the insanity looked like, how it sparkled in the depths of his once clear eyes. Whatever was there terrified Bobby. Dean realized he'd never seen _that _emotion on the older hunter's face before, and there it was, staring back at him, because of him.

The madness in the backseat rattled impatiently. Maybe it would have been better if Bobby had let Dean die months ago, too late now.

Now the madness was calling the shots.

And Dean had things left to do.

_Down he sank in a chair-ran his hands through his hair-  
>And chanted in mimsiest tones<br>Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity _

_**To Be Continued**_


	8. Chapter the Seventh

_A/N: Chapter the Seventh and the end draws nigh, _

_not in this bit, but soon I must say, the finish will utter a sigh._

_Sorry, I've been reading Snark again. This is a little late, there is a grand finale coming! Thank you all for reading and reviewing_

_A/N II: For those of you who have read and enjoyed my Custodes Noctis Series, The Summoning is available on Kindle for only 99 cents! Be the first to PM me and I will send you a kindle copy!_

**Chapter the Seventh**

**Three Months Before**

_Each thought he was thinking of nothing but "Snark"__  
><em>_And the glorious work of the day;__  
><em>_And each tried to pretend that he did not remark__  
><em>_That the other was going that way._

It was hot in the car and even with the windows down, they were going too slow to generate any wind to help cool it down. Dean was watching the edge of the road as Sam drove towards Hat Point again, they planned to stop at a wide spot that looked out over the Imnaha River Valley. The Jubjub had come from that direction, and Sam said he remembered reading something about an abandoned car being found at the spot a year ago. The road seemed a lot narrower today, some of the enthusiasm from their trip the day before was gone, and everything was a little more dangerous suddenly. Funny, Dean hadn't noticed the immense drop as they climbed up the dirt road, he'd been too busy reminiscing with Sam to worry about it. Now, as Sam slowed for every corner, creeping around it, he had time to take a good look at just how far they could fall.

When they finally reached the pull-out, he breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't that much wider than the road, but it was wide enough to safely do a three-point turn, and that felt comforting. Dean opened the car door, scanning the sky and the hill that loomed above them before getting out. "All's clear, I think."

Sam was out of the car already, walking to the edge and looking down the road to where they had just come from. The dust still lingered in the hot air, and Dean watched a wisp of it drift overhead before joining his brother. They were above the top of the ridge where the tree had disappeared, and Dean could now see a dark scar where the tree had been. It looked like it had been sliced from the earth with a hot tool. Far, far below he could make out the river, just a tiny strip of blue from this high.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was nearly a whisper, but filled with urgency. "Look!"

"What?" Dean answered, turning in the direction Sam indicated. There was something moving just to the right of where the tree had been. It seemed to be heading up the hill, along the top of the ridge, heading up the canyon towards Hat Point. Whatever it was, it was fast. Dean moved to the other side of the car, looking up to see if he could see the top of the hill above them. He was edging back, trying to get a better look when he felt the small retaining wall against his knees. Stopping, he shielded his eyes; it didn't seem to be heading towards them.

"It's going over into Hell's Canyon, I think," Sam said.

"What is it?"

"I don't know, I couldn't tell, could you?"

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, as an expert at Snark hunting …"

"Ha ha." Sam leaned against the car, still staring in the direction the thing had gone. "Should we go up? Or check out the area?"

"You said that they found a car here, let's see what that turns up," Dean said. A cold chill blasted through his chest every time he thought about following the thing. This hunt was turning into something less and less funny.

"Okay." Sam grabbed the pack out of the car and closed the door. "Which way?"

Dean looked around. "What kind of car?"

"Mercedes SUV."

"Huh." Dean thought about that for a minute. He looked off the almost sheer edge, then up at the steep hill. "Up the road."

"Why?"

"Hunch. That kind of car, if they parked here, they were probably taking a walk, not rock climbing."

Sam gave him a funny look, but nodded and they started up the road. There was a definite chill in the air that had nothing to do with the sun blazing in the sky above them or the wind that whistled along canyon, occasionally crossing the road and whipping up into a small dust devil. Dean watched the edge, looking for any sign of a negotiable path. All he could see was the steep drop off, and it was getting steeper the farther they climbed. He thought he saw something for a moment, but it was gone so fast, he wasn't sure he'd seen anything.

"Hey," Sam said, stopping.

"What?" Dean turned.

"What do you think?" Sam pointed to a path. It was steep, obviously a game trail and led up between some scrub brush and a few scraggly pines.

"If I were sort of daring, that's the way I'd go. Just to check it out and then say I went hiking."

"If you were?"

"Yeah. I'm not. Going up steep trails in the middle of nowhere is not fun. You could end up plummeting to your death."

Sam chuckled. "Plummeting?"

"Hell yeah. Plummeting is way more fatal than falling."

"It is?" Sam started up the trail, carefully picking his way. Dean watched a rock roll down the hill, across the road and drop of the edge. He didn't hear it hit bottom.

"It has to be. How many times have you heard—or read—that someone plummeted to their death? No one plummets and survives. You fall and you survive. One plummet and you're toast." Dean stopped to catch his breath, pretending to look out across the valley. His ribs were aching and he didn't want Sam to know.

"You should have said something. I have ibuprofen in the pack."

"I'm thinking of just not talking at all," Dean muttered.

"What?" Sam handed him the pills and the surviving canteen.

"Nothing." The water was warm and tasted a little moldy, they really should get new canteen, but they'd had this one for years, the blanket-covering worn bare in places. They should consider heading back, the sun was beginning to drop, and it got dark fast in the canyons. Dean didn't really want to be driving down the road after nightfall. _Of course that might be better. _"Okay, let's go." He pushed himself up. "Sammy?" His brother was standing completely still. "Hey, statue man," Dean said, stepping up beside him. He peeked around his brother and froze. "What the hell is…?"

He never had a chance to finish. The creature was tearing straight down the path towards them, and as Dean stared at it, he heard the shriek of the Jubjub. He didn't even have time to react before the bird was on him, dragging him off the path. Then he was airborne, talons digging into his shoulder. He heard Sam's shout, and something growling—or a cross between a growl and something else. He tried to twist to see his brother, but the creature bit down on him, nipping hard at his flailing hand. They were almost over the car, a few more feet and he would be over the edge. _Then all that's left is a plummet. _Dean reached for his gun and pulled it out.

"NO!" He heard Sam's shout, but still Dean turned the gun on the thing and pulled the trigger. The claws immediately let go and Dean was falling, at least he hoped it was a fall. When he slammed into the ground beside the car—just missing the rock wall, he just stayed still, hoping that the Jubjub had been wounded enough to not come right back.

"Sam!"

"I'm okay!" his brother answered immediately. "You?"

"Awesome." Dean rolled over and felt a stab of pain in his ribs. The Jubjub was gone, the sky empty of everything. The wall was starting to cast a long shadow. They needed to get out of the area before dark. He was sure of that. Sam must have reached the road; Dean could hear him running full out, his feet sliding a bit on the gravel.

"Hey."

"Help me up." Dean held up his hand and Sam gently lifted him to his feet and helped him to the car. "Thanks."

"God, Dean, your shoulder's a mess." Sam eased the fabric back, swallowing hard.

"Just like _Jurassic Park III,_" Dean said with a grin. "I can cross that off my bucket list."

"Getting carried off by pterosaurs is on your bucket list?"

"Yeah? And?" Dean smirked. "What did you think was on it?"

"Not getting carried off by pterosaurs." Sam grimaced as he placed a bandage on the wound. "I'll clean it better at the motel."

"We should head back." Dean swung his legs in the car and Sam closed it.

"Yeah, I don't want to drive down this road in the dark," his brother said, dropping into the driver's seat.

"What was on the trail?"

Sam looked over, his eyes haunted. "I'm not sure."

"That good, eh?"

"Yeah."

**Three weeks, two days, one hour, ten minutes, five seconds after.**

The road was empty, the long miles stretching out in front of him, the lines blending together, reaching on forever. They waivered at the edge, almost like a mirage, but Dean suspected it had more to do with a fever than the weather. Bobby had found him and patched him up, but as soon as he could, Dean left. The older hunter was asleep, his head down on the table, when Dean slipped out of the room. It probably wasn't the best decision ever, but then again, he wasn't sure he was capable of good decisions anymore. The madness was getting the upper hand and he had to get away from Bobby before he let something out.

It was three hours to the next town, and there was even a convenient hunt there. A spirit, Dean guessed from the reports. Something simple to lose himself in. He needed it desperately despite the fact he knew he wasn't well enough to tackle anything more vicious than a motel pillow. Sighing, he turned up the stereo, trying to drown out his own thoughts. His wounds ached. Until Bobby's gasp of surprise, he hadn't realized how many there were, but now they hurt, every one of them. Pain upon pain upon pain like a cake from hell besieged his body. He felt a smile tug at his lips. Sam would have jumped all over him for that description. His brother would have rolled his eyes, sighed and said something along the lines of: "That is _so_ wrongI don't even know where to begin."

The road ahead forked, and Dean headed to the left. He wasn't sure why, the town he'd planned on heading for was to the right, but something told him to take that road. It quickly went from wide and well-maintained highway to narrow two-lane farm road. Barbed wire fence lined one side and grasslands stretching out to mesas were on the other. A herd of cattle drifted along the fence, one or two lifting their head to watch him pass by, but most ignoring him and placidly grazing.

He'd been on the road for about forty-five minutes when he spotted a sign for an upcoming town. Like so many in this part of the country it added an ominous "Next services 95 miles" after the name of the town. His tank was at half-full, but he could use a stretch, so he pulled into the gas station and got out. He put the nozzle in the tank and headed in to pay for the gas. The station was a mixture of a minimart and tourist trap museum. Dean wandered around, looking at the various items. When they were kids, Sam loved places like this—Dean had to admit he did too. You never knew what was there, and they had found some of their favorite things in places like this. There was a well-worn plush bear that still lived at the bottom of Dean's duffle bag.

On the back there was a large bookcase. He stopped and ran his eyes over the titles listlessly. Books were more Sam's things, and since his brother's fall, he hadn't opened the box of books Sam insisted were invaluable. Dean was just about to turn away when something caught his eye—not the title, but the author. Lewis Carroll. _Huh. _Dean picked it up. It was an unusual collection of poems, but it still wasn't that interesting until he opened it. The margins were filled with handwritten notes. He stared at it for a moment, then carried it to the front. "How much?" he asked the man behind the counter.

"For that?"

Dean stared at him with his eyebrows up.

"You don't want it, trust me," the man said.

"Why not?"

"The guy I got it from—it was his father's. Kid told me his old man went stark raving bonkers."

"Why?" Dean asked.

The man shrugged. "Said he was muttering about 'them' coming for him. And sharks or something like that."

"Snarks?"

"Yeah, that's it. Snarks."

"Anyway, kid's dad disappeared up in Oregon and he headed out this way. Needed money for gas, so I swapped him for the book. It was old, I thought it might be worth something. So far no one cares."

"How much did you give him?" Dean tried to sound casual.

"Twenty bucks worth."

Dean put three twenties on the counter. "There's for my gas and the book. We good?"

"Yeah," the man said with a smile.

"Thanks." Dean walked out to the car and got in, carefully setting the book on the seat beside him. Without looking too close, he'd seen the beginnings of a spell on one page, and some information about the Jubjub in red on the bottom of another. Maybe he should turn back towards Oregon. _No, not yet. _He eased onto the road, he'd gone about twenty miles, becoming more and more aware of the book beside him, when he saw the flash of a lodge sign. The area was dotted with hunting lodges and motels from the days before the interstates pulled traffic away.

He decided he couldn't ignore the book any longer and pulled in. He had to hit the bell at the front desk five times before anyone showed up to check him in, but they seemed pleased to see a customer. They handed over a key and told him that the diner was open until eleven and opened for breakfast at six. Glancing through the door to the "diner" Dean saw one booth and two tables. He thanked the woman and drove the car to his room—actually it was a little cabin, with a separate carport for each of the ten cabins of the motel. Quaint was the only word he could think of. _Well, creepy works too. _

The room was clean, although it smelled a little musty with disuse. He flipped on the TV and dropped his bags on the other bed. Settling himself on the bed, he opened the book, glancing at the table of contents. The last in the books was _The Hunting of the Snark. _Opening to the preface he started reading. He'd read it before. More than once, maybe more than a hundred times since that day at Hat Point. He knew it by heart and could recite it as easily as an exorcism. The answer had to be there, he just wasn't sure what it was, what they had missed. As he flipped the pages, he realized he was paying less attention to the poem and more to the notes. Whoever wrote them was a hunter, and they knew what they were doing.

He was dozing, the volume open on his chest when he heard a soft call. "Dean."

"Sam," he answered immediately.

"It's about time," the voice huffed at him.

"I found a book," Dean said to the air, wanting to talk to his brother, knowing this was just the madness back again. Hell mocking him.

"Book? What book?" A phantom weight brushed the bed, like someone had sat down.

"A collection of poems, but there are these notes." Dean sat up carefully, the stitches pulling.

"You're hurt," the madness said worriedly.

"I'm okay." Dean set the book on the bed and opened it. He felt a sift rush of air like Sam had bent over his shoulder to read. "It's full of notes."

"Show me!" The air crackled with excitement.

Dean couldn't help the chuckle. He turned page after page as the light fled the room. When it was too dark to read, he turned on the light and just for an instant he was sure he saw the glimmer of his brother's outline.

Maybe madness wasn't so bad after all.

**Present**

Two months, three weeks, six days, eleven hours, thirty-one minutes, twenty-seven seconds after.

The car was hot, the scents of wax and vegetation mixing with the coppery scent of blood and the tang of gun oil. Bobby had a hand to his mouth, a tickle of blood running over his chin. Dean knew he should feel worse about it, but the older hunter had tried to stop him and that was not an option right now. If this failed, if Dean was wrong, he would hand the gun to Bobby and ask the man to kill him, but until then, he had to wait in line just like everything else that wanted Dean dead. _And it's nice to know there are enough for a list. _

Dean rounded the first of the corners on the way up from the turn out. He was driving fast, the tires skidding on the gravel. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Bobby's face had gone white as he watched the edge—and the massive drop-off—go by. For half a second he considered slowing down, but then he changed his mind. They had just reached the third cattle guard when Dean spotted something in the sky. It was coming at them at high speed. Idly he wondered if a Bandersnatch was large enough to damage the Impala. He ignored it.

"What the hell is that?" Bobby shouted.

"Bandersnatch," Dean replied.

"Slow down, Dean!"

"What time is it?" Dean asked. The sun was well past its zenith.

"What?" Bobby asked wildly then glanced at his watch. "Almost three. Slow the hell down."

"No." He had to hurry, they were almost out of time. The madness rattled in agreement.

_There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,__  
><em>_Scarcely even a howl or a groan_

_**To Be Continued**_


	9. Chapter the Eighth

_**A/N:**__ I know I have been missing for months- I've been madly working to finish my new novel __**The Sail Weaver**__—now available on Amazon (dot) com . In fact be the first to PM or mention you'd like a copy in your review and I will send you the Kindle version! _

_A/NII: When I embarked upon the Snark, I had always intended it to match the number of "chapters" of Lewis Carroll's amazing work. So, without further ado… Here it is…_

**Chapter the Eighth**

**Three Months Before**

_Erect and sublime, for one moment of time.__  
><em>_In the next, that wild figure they saw__  
><em>_(As if stung by a spasm) plunge into a chasm_

The sun was just warming the valley as they made their way through Imnaha. Dean was trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder where the Jubjub had gripped him in its talons. It was hard to avoid shifting to make it more comfortable—the problem was every time he did, Sam would slow the car and give him one of _those _looks. Of course, he had every right to be giving him a look, if Sam had a wound like that on his shoulder, Dean would have locked him safely in the motel and taken off without him. Which was exactly what Sam had been doing an hour before when Dean woke up and caught his brother trying to sneak out without him. So far the trip had been one of those uncomfortable silences, Sam radiating worry and Dean trying to ignore the pain and his brother.

"Do you need anything?" Sam asked as they drove into the tiny town.

"No, we're good," Dean said. Sam gave him a sideways glance. "Well?"

"Nothing," Sam replied and headed out of town and onto the narrow track up to Hat Point.

They had decided that they would go straight to the top that day. All their investigations in the lower valley had not gotten them any closer to the Snark, and Sam had suggested that they should start at the top and work their way down. Dean readily agreed, he was tired of getting attacked by various ridiculous sounding creatures. In fact, he was almost longing for a simple salt and burn. Dig them up, light them up, beer and pizza. No Bandersnatches or Jubjubs or any of the other weirdness that this trip had been full of so far.

Sam passed the first turn out—the one with the sign warning people on the way down to pull out and let their brakes cool off. Dean watched it go by, and the road really started to climb. Every time they went up, the grade seemed steeper and steeper and the drop off looked that much more ominous. His brother was being cautious, the car was going less than twenty miles an hour, which meant it would take almost an hour to reach the top.

Something sparkled on the slope below them. Dean twisted in the seat, trying to get a better look. "How far up are we?" he asked.

"We're almost to the turn-out we stopped at yesterday."

"Where you saw the whatever-it-was and I got a flying lesson?"

"Yeah, why?"

"There's something out there." He had the binoculars on the seat beside him, picked them up and aimed them in the direction of the sparkle. For just and instant it was there, racing along the slope, then it was gone into the hillside. "Went into one of those lava ledges, probably a cave."

"Do you want to…?"

"No, let's stick to the plan, all the way to the top. Every time we stop to investigate, something tries to kill us."

"You."

"What?" Dean turned to his brother.

"You, everything seems to be after you." Sam said, inching around a hairpin turn. "The Bandersnatch, the Jubjub, the whatever it was that made you walk off the ledge at Hat Point."

"It's not just me."

"Mostly."

"Okay, mostly me, but not all me."

Sam sighed. "Fine."

"Fine." Dean went back to watching the drop-off.

Once they started climbing away from the Imnaha River valley, the drop got even worse. He didn't remember it being so steep, but the day they drove all the way up, he'd been driving. As they neared the top, he noticed a large bird circling in the sky. He trained the binoculars on it and let out a sigh of relief when it turned out to be a buzzard. His relief only lasted a few seconds—out of nowhere another larger bird dove towards the buzzard and they both disappeared.

"I'm really starting to hate this place," Dean muttered.

"What's that?"

"A Bandersnatch just took out a buzzard, they disappeared. This day is starting out fun."

"Yeah."

As they reached the next turn, Sam slammed on the brakes and the car slid dangerously close to the edge. Once the car stopped, Dean looked out, something was on the road in front of them. Sam was opening his door to get out. "Stay here!" his brother snapped, pulling his gun out.

"Sam…"

"Whatever it is, Dean, I'm pretty sure it's dead. So just stay."

Dean sighed, nodded, and opened his door, shifting in the seat so he could keep his gun on the object in the road as his brother walked towards it. Sam walked to the side of the road and picked up a stick in his left hand, then walked to the mass in the road. He poked it with the stick. When nothing happened, he put his gun away and crouched down for a closer look. Dean watched him, scanning the sky above them every few seconds just in case something else was watching the road.

"Sam?"

"I don't know, it's… um… mostly goo."

"Any idea what the goo was before it was goo?"

"No, even the—well, I think they are bones—even they are goo." Sam stood and turned back to the car.

"You're not going to drive my car through a pile of goo are you?"

"What do you want me to do with it?"

"Push it off the road."

Sam huffed, Dean could see it. "No, Dean, I am not going to push the pile of goo of the road. We can find a car wash tonight." He got in the car. "It's a big pile of goo."

"Oh, even better. Drive my baby through the big pile of goo that we don't even know what kind of goo it is goo."

"Dean." Sam turned to him. "Get over it." He eased the car back onto the road and drove through the mass on the road. Dean winced as he heard a squishy sound on the tires. "Get over it," Sam repeated.

"You can clean it."

"Fine."

They were getting near the top. Dean could see the Seven Devils clearly now and the next turn was the one that led to the overlook at Hat Point. The parking area was empty. "Where's the ranger's car?" Dean said, getting out and looking around.

"I don't know. There should be someone up here," Sam said, walking across the parking area to look over the edge. "It's not down there."

"I'm not sure I find that comforting."

"Yeah," Sam said, walking back to Dean. "Out to the end?"

"As good a place to start as any," Dean answered scanning the sky again.

"Remember Bernie said he'd never seen the Bandersnatches up here."

"Yeah, he also recited Jabberwocky twice."

"I thought we covered that," Sam said with a sigh.

"Yes, he was right about a lot of things." Dean glanced at Sam. "It doesn't make him any less crazy."

Sam smiled. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Dean laughed.

"Okay, maybe a little more than that," Sam agreed. "But he was up here a long time."

"He was." Dean was looking down into Hell's Canyon. "Look."

"What?"

"That black mark, was it there last time?"

Sam leaned over the edge. "No, that's new. There was a stand of trees there. I remember, because they were in line with the fire tower that disappeared."

Dean let his eyes travel across the valley in a straight line from the dark mark—and sure enough he could see the spot where the tower had been, there was another dark spot further along the same line. "Another one," he said pointing it out to Sam.

"Are they getting more active?"

"The Snarks?" Dean asked.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe they have some kind of cycle?"

"You'd think Bernie would have noticed something like that," Dean pointed out.

"Sometimes people are too close to things, you know that."

"Yeah, do you think it would be in the poem?"

"It could be, let me get the print out from the car. You stay here. No walking off the ledge, okay?"

Dean leaned against sign post. "I'll be right here," he said with a grin.

"Okay." Sam smiled back, and headed towards the car.

Dean glanced out across the canyon, his eyes tracking the various dark scars on the landscape. He wasn't sure what made him look up, but he did. Sam was nearly at the car when he turned and started towards the edge. "Sam!" he called. His brother didn't react. "SAMMY!" Dean was running towards Sam and had nearly reached him as Sam jumped. "SAM!"

His brother hung in the air for a second then with a strangled sound started to fall. Dean raced to the edge, but Sam was gone.

"SAMMY!" His scream echoed weirdly, bouncing through the canyon. "SAM!"

Silence, just the faintest lingering sound of laughter on the air, maniacal, all-consuming, life-devouring laughter. And then it was still echoing—not on the wind, but in his mind. The rest was silence.

**Two months, three weeks, five days, ten hours, fifteen minutes, twenty-seven seconds after**

The sun was shining, Dean stared at the ceiling of the room. He could hear Bobby out in the yard. The older hunter must know he was on the mend, it was the first time Dean had opened his eyes to an empty room since Bobby had found him two months, one week, twelve hours after. He didn't even know what month it was out in the world, only that internal counter to let him know that time was passing at all. Dean did know he'd been surprised when the older hunter had shown up at the motel, he had no memory of calling him. Maybe the madness had insisted? There was only a memory of pain, fever and movement.

Somewhere in those fevered hours, he thought he remembered the madness talking about what it was like in the limbo he was existing in. A place of strange times and creatures. Of course, it might have just been the fever, but Dean was sure the madness had told him about a cave, and how one night he had realized he could reach Dean, and how long it had actually taken to make that contact, and once he did, how hard it had been to get Dean to talk to him. The madness had been impatient.

Dean sighed. Sitting up, he noticed his bag was on the chair beside bed. He dragged it over, ignoring the pull of stitches, and managed to get it onto the bed. The book was still there. He'd been worried that after listening to his ravings, Bobby would have taken the collection of Carroll's poems away. _He was probably more worried about keeping me alive. _Dean pulled the volume out and flipped it open, looking at the notes left by the first hunter who'd owned it, and his own notations that he'd made as he and the madness spent hours poring over the book. They were still missing something, Dean could feel it, something was missing some part of the equation was still just out of their reach. Once he had that, he could go back and…

"Dean?" the madness whispered.

"Sam," he replied, comforted. He'd been worried that when the fever left him, the madness would as well. "What are we missing?" Dean's eyes ran over the poem for the millionth time. When he reached the end he stopped. "Son of a bitch."

"What?"

"How could we have missed this?" He pointed to the passage in question. "It's _all_ of them."

"You're right!" the madness rattled excitedly. "If that's true then…"

"Then what?"

The phantom weight brushed the bed, Dean shifted over as if he were making room, then twisted the book so he could share it with the madness. They'd been stuck on several pages, not sure of which way to go for a long time. Even longer now, Dean had been ill for weeks.

"I have an idea," the madness said.

"You do?" Dean asked hopefully.

"I think I know what you need to take with you."

"You mean other than thimbles, forks and soap?"

"Yeah, the other missing pieces. I was thinking about it while you were sick. There's another poem where he mentions very specific items."

"There are several," he chided the madness.

"Not like this," the huff was so like Sam it hurt. "He actually points directly to it."

"What are you talking about?"

"'_The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things/:Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—/Of cabbages—and kings—/And why the sea is boiling hot—And whether pigs have wings."',_" the madness quoted.

"And that is going to help how?"

"You need to get wax, cabbage, boiling salt water…"

"And a ship, a shoe, a king and a pig with wings?" Dean could hear the sarcasm and regretted it.

"Not exactly. I think the pig with wings was added for effect, the ship is transportation to where the Snark is and the king is the last person who was taken and the shoe means you need something that person owned."

For the first time in nearly three months a flutter of hope began to beat in Dean's chest. It wasn't much, the smallest whispering against the screaming madness in his mind, but it was there. "And then?"

"You know the rest, we've covered that."

"If I do it wrong…"

"I know," the madness said quietly. "At least you won't know you did it wrong for long."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "And you?"

"If it goes wrong, I won't be around either."

It was a pact, a phantom hand brushed his shoulder and the madness sighed. Dean leaned over, like he'd leaned against Sam so many times and thought about what was to come. He'd tell Bobby they were going back to find Sam and bury him. The hunter would probably guess it was a lie, but if it meant an end to this, Dean would do anything to get back to Hat Point.

**Present**

Two months, three weeks, six days, twelve hours, two minutes, ten seconds after.

Dean stopped the car in the parking lot at Hat Point, the area was completely abandoned. He'd called ahead and made sure that the ranger was not scheduled to be there in the late afternoon. In fact, the ranger's SUV had passed them on their way up, he'd given them a friendly wave and a funny look. Dean guessed he wasn't used to seeing large, non-four-wheel drive cars barreling up the road.

"Dean…" Bobby said.

"I've got to do this, Bobby, if it doesn't work, you can do whatever you want."

"If this doesn't work, you could blow this part of the world to bits."

"I might." Dean handed him the keys. "It would probably just be the ridge, you can get far enough down to be safe."

Bobby looked at the keys then up at Dean. "No."

"Bobby…"

"No, I came this far, I'll be damned before I don't see it through. You came to find Sam and kill that thing that took him. I'd like to see it dead, too."

_That's not exactly what I'm planning. _"Just promise you'll stay back until it's over." Dean waited. "Promise!" he snapped.

"Okay, I'll stay with the car."

Dean nodded and grabbed his bag out of the back. "What time is it?"

"Almost four."

"Nearly brillig," Dean mumbled.

"What?" Bobby gave him an odd look.

"Brillig."

"Brillig?" The older hunter paused. "Wait, like from the poem?"

"Yeah, it's a time."

"It's a what?"

"It's a time of day," Dean said. "I need to go. If this goes wrong, Bobby, I…" He swallowed.

"Yeah," Bobby said, nodding, his eyes bright. "It better not go wrong."

"It won't." Dean nodded and turned away, walking out to the very point of the overlook. The dark scars were still there, no plants had encroached into the area, nothing was growing—when the Snark took something it left death in its wake. That made something twist uncomfortably in his stomach, the hope fighting against complete despair. The madness rattled behind him as he knelt down and started laying the items he needed on the ground.

Getting out a small sterno stove, he lit it and put a pot of water on it, adding salt and waiting for it to boil. From somewhere in the distance he heard the shriek of a Bandersnatch. He looked up, scanning the sky for the creature, but there was nothing in the sky at all. The brassy blue expanse was empty. Even so, he pulled his gun out and set it beside him. He wasn't about to let something stop this now.

The water was starting to boil. Dean picked up the book and, following the notes the hunter had left he started reciting a spell pieced together from a collection of Carroll's poems. The water was boiling hard, he cut the cabbage into four equal parts and dropped it in to the pot. After another stanza he added the wax, then the soap and stirred it all with a silver fork. Two stanzas more and he picked up his knife, made a deep cut in his palm, letting his blood fill the silver thimble completely. He set the thimble carefully on the ground and picked up one of Sam's shoes. He took the boiling mass off the heat, added the thimble and blood.

For a moment he paused, wondering if this was all truly madness, hope gone wrong and he was crazier than Bernie.

_I don't care. _

He poured the entire contents of the pan into Sam's shoe. Everything was quiet. Nothing happened. Dean sighed, his head hanging in defeat as even the madness left him, no longer rattling softly behind him.

Then…

The world exploded.

Everything was gone from around Dean, the ridge missing under his knees, the sun over his head. It was all gone in a huge wave that blasted over him, a giant thunderclap deafening him as the sound of rocks being blasted apart clashed with the shrieks of unknown creatures. The rocks tore at his skin, he thought he felt a rib crack, he wasn't sure.

The quiet that descended was more startling that the explosion. Dean opened his eyes and stared up at the empty, brassy blue sky. He rolled over and managed to push himself onto his feet, turning to look where he had been. The ridge was torn up, a massive dust cloud still settling from the force of the explosion. He was debating whether it would be easier to just jump off the edge or have Bobby end him when he thought he saw movement in the dust cloud.

He stared, not believing.

His heart started hammering.

Then he was running towards the figure stumbling out of the dust cloud. "SAMMY!"

Sam looked up and started moving faster. "DEAN!"

Dean grabbed his brother and pulling him against him, ignoring the aches and pains, the wounds of the last three months and held on like a drowning man. Sam's hold was equally tight. They were motionless for a moment, then Sam pushed away, looking at him, his eyes running over him, Dean doing the same. He didn't care that there were tears on his face, Sam was crying too, the tears dripping off his nose the way they did. His brother looked older somehow, tired, Dean wasn't sure, but there might be gray in his hair.

"Are you okay?" Dean managed to ask finally.

Sam nodded. "You?"

"Yeah." Dean pulled Sam against him again. Just making sure this was real and not the madness. "Yeah."

"You did it."

"We did it, Sammy."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, leaning against him.

**Epilogue**

**Three months, two days, twenty hours, thirty minutes, fifty-five seconds after**

Hat Point, Hell's Canyon, Oregon, within view of the Seven Devils Mountain Range

Dean stood staring over the edge of the chasm. The dark spots below him were starting to show a soft green fuzz of returning vegetation. In the distance he could see several deer wandering along the canyon, heads down, unconcerned as they grazed. The sky was a bright blue, a few white puffy clouds drifting by, one or two looking like they might turn into storm clouds later in the day. The wind whipped up the walls of the chasm, whipping around him and bringing the scent of the valley below. He stood there, staring for a long time, thinking over the past months, the fact that the ticker was still running, keeping track of the days.

A warm hand closed on his shoulder. He looked over and met Sam's eyes. "Time to go," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean said, and they turned and walked to the car together.

_For the Snark __**was**__ a Boojum, you see_.

_**The End**_


End file.
